Bring Me That Horizon
by ACleverName
Summary: Don't read if you don't want to see Jack Elizabeth shipping galore. Will Turner disappears, apparently dead. Port Royal is struck by a plague. Elizabeth's only hope is to bribe Jack Sparrow to her plan, but has she really considered the consequences? V
1. Chapter 1

**B**ring **M**e **T**hat **H**orizon

Being a true account of the pirate and rogue,

Captain Jack Sparrow, and Mrs. Elizabeth Turner, lately Swann

Chapter I.

"Some audacious fellows actually began their privateering careers without a ship, putting to sea in whaleboats, skiffs and fishing smacks . . ." –_Daily Life in the Age of Sail _

A tress of Elizabeth's long brown hair flew into her face, impairing her vision; quickly she tossed it away with a weary impatience. She was waiting in the poor light of a dismal fire in the grand brick fireplace in the Governor's mansion in Port Royal Colony Jamaica. Embroidery had never been for her; her pricked fingers had convinced her nurses early on that fancy-work was out of the question. She might fly into tantrums so violent over the injury the hoop and needle had done her that her mother must be sent for to calm her. But now it was the household accounts which she had spent many an evening burning her eyes over that were cast aside in favor of the embroidery. The truth was that she was nervous, and the mindless task of sewing flowers calmed her, whereas the harsh reality of her household's funds were much too abrasive for her nerves now.

It was in the middle of embroidering another fat pink flower and the beginning of her Latin motto, _Forewarned, forearmed, _that she jumped when the sound of the door startled her. She quickly put away her sewing in a small, dented marquetry table by her feet and stood to check her reflection in the hazy scrap of a mirror above the mantle. She wore a simple, faded gown of grey silk that was at one time patterned with cabbage roses of pink and yellow. The skirt was a little too stiff and short now, allowing her white-laundered petticoat to show. But in general she looked elegant and imperious, though her carriage was perhaps a little too unbendingly rigid for true grace.

She stood. She heard the door open, the whispered words exchanged, the heavy padding of the footman wandering away while a pair of lighter feet came toward her. She listened to the uneven, theatrical cadence of the jack-boots on the stone floor. Then in the doorway traipsed a long black broadcloth cloak from which a pair of dark eyes glittered. "Captain Jack Sparrow," she said.

The figure was silent and still. Then, from within its cloak it produced a dirty bit of parchment paper upon which had been drawn a crude but recognizable ink design of a small bird soaring above ocean waves. It elicited a faint smile from Elizabeth's otherwise passive, even grim, visage, for she had drawn it—some six weeks before. On the reverse, she knew, it had borne her signature and an eager plea for the help of the one it named. "I see you received the message," she said. Captain Jack Sparrow removed the broadcloth coat with a highly dashing flourish that nevertheless failed slightly in its intent when it doffed his hat as well; he spent the next few moments attempting to retrieve it. "Right inconvenient though it were, I did do as you asked," he said, with a courteous inclination of his head.

To her satisfaction, Elizabeth saw that he had changed very little since she had last seen him. He had obviously replaced his ragged and faded long coat with a new and rather sumptuous one of red wool, with gold trim on the cuffs, flared at the waist in a slight concession to the fashion of that particular season. She could not be certain if his doublet and white shirtsleeves were new or simply washed. The trousers, slightly baggy in the Dutch style, were obviously new and of a shiny, coppery-colored material. The buckles on his belts showed evidence of recent polishing, but the wide and heavy scarves and stiff buccaneering boots were the same. The red scarf wound around his head was the same, as was the ancient and battered three-cornered hat, but his long dark hair, braided and wind-woven (though perhaps it too had been recently washed) was still full of all manner of strange trinkets. There was still the curious amount of eyeblack which Elizabeth could only equate to archaic descriptions of Egyptian kohl. Yes, this was the self-same Captain Jack Sparrow.

"I would've expected a more cheerful welcome from the likes o' 'Lizabeth Swann," he said.

"It's Mrs. Turner now," Elizabeth said briskly, taking a few reluctant steps toward her guest.

"Ah, so you di' marry young Mr. Turner," said Jack Sparrow pleasantly, smiling. She watched his smile warily. There was something that unnerved her about it. Then she realized why: _One, two, three. _Three gold teeth. She recoiled slightly. He reached out for her hand, an assortment of rings of various sizes and qualities glittering from his darkened, sinewy fingers. She gave him her hand slowly and when he took it, he kissed it. His close-clipped whiskers tickled the back of her hand. She drew back quickly.

"Well, then," she said, looking down and moving to her chair opposite the fire, "will you sit down?"

"No, than' ye," said Jack Sparrow, swaggering across the room and resting one elbow on the mantle. "I prefer to stand."

Elizabeth cleared her throat. "I'm afraid I had better get right to—" She looked up. Jack was examining the cut-glass carafe of very old brandy lately on the mantle. She watched in preponderance as he peered at the glass.

"Oh, do go on, 'Lizabeth," he said with the grandness of a monarch, flicking one hand at her in almost an almost dismissive gesture.

Elizabeth, perturbed, opened her mouth to speak again but was thoroughly distracted by Jack's insistence on staring at the contents of the brandy bottle while appearing entirely nonchalant. "Would you like a drink?" she asked sharply.

Jack looked up slowly, as if attempting to sense the source of an insect's infinitesimal buzzing. "Oh, well, if you're offerin'," he replied with mock concern, gently replacing the glass bottle on the mantle. Elizabeth, flustered with anger, got none too gracefully to her feet to pour. "No, no," Jack went on, lazily waving her away, "don't get up, love." An enormous grin. "I'll be pourin' meself." Elizabeth rustled her skirts angrily and sat down again. "Now finish your splen'id narrative, an' I'll be on my way."

She had not intended to be unjustifiably harsh with this outlaw of the noose, this daring, incautious brother of the coast, this _fato profugus _(as Horace might have had it). He had long before proved his mettle as a good and worthy man instead of the disgusting, vulgar thief she had taken him for originally. But her anger over his flippant temper when her own perils were so grave, well—it almost brought tears to her eyes. But in lieu of letting those wretched things show, she struck out acerbically, "An inconvenience, you say, Mr. Sparrow—"

"_Captain _Sparrow, Mrs. Turner," he said pleasantly, if pointedly, consuming the brandy with a well-satisfied look on his face.

She ignored him brutally. "—but did you not notice that Port Royal was perhaps a little more facile to infiltrate this time?" Her eyes burned with the hectic light of an angry, wearied woman cut to the quick.

Jack was dribbling the last of the brandy out of his tumbler before looking at her in such a way that may have been uncertainty towards the meaning of the word "facile." "Aye, I did notice it," he said, without conviction.

Her voice was hard-edged, cold. "Have you heard no word at all of anything amiss in Jamaica Colony? No word of a sickness, perhaps . . .?"

"We heard summat o' a fever," he said. "What o' it?"

She smiled in a sad, arch way. "The population of Port Royal was devastated by the disease. You must have seen how overcome our small colony was when looted by Barbossa's men—this was many times worse. Those who did not die left by necessity. Those who stayed

. . . did so only because there was no alternative."

Any giddiness the brandy may have produced in Jack ebbed away; his eyes were clear and focused, even in the unsteady firelight. "I think I'll be wantin' that seat now," he said gravely.

She watched silently as he tumbled into the chair beside her own, arranging the tails of his coat like a court gentleman might. His pistol—and his teeth—shone in the light. She cleared her throat. "Let me confirm what you already believe—Will and I were married some months after your daring escape." Her glance was darkly ironic as she recalled him tripping, rather than leaping, to safety from the gibbet.

"A little 'asty there, love, don't you think?" Jack asked with a wicked glint in his eye. He set to using his dirty fingers to curl the ends of his Spanish-style mustachio in a manner she had seen once before—and did not like to recall the circumstances. Nevertheless, she did not go after the bait, and after a time of her frostily peering down her nose at the interruption, he added, "Not something your friend the Commodore would quite approve of."

And she did flush a little, but said merely, "Perhaps not. In any case, we were married-"

"Well, glad tidin's to you both. I 'ope quite sincerely there were no inopportune discoveries on the, ah, wedding night."

She gave him a look of pure venom, the look of one annoyed almost beyond her patience. He grinned quite cheekily at his little joke, settling comfortably into his chair, resting his booted feet on the table without a word. "When I lived in England," she said very coldly, "I sometimes visited my cousin Edward, who was a surgeon. So I had some skill in attending illness—"

"And you di' not catch the fever," Jack interposed.

"I was one of the first to fall ill," she corrected. "But I recovered quickly and began nursing those too weak to tend themselves." He gazed at her, as if only then seeing the dark, puffy skin under her eyes. "My father took sick, and the sickness lingered. Then Will followed."

"The boy . . ." The pirate's voice was wistful and his look far away. Elizabeth noticed this with some astonishment, though she said nothing.

"My father died." Her voice was unadorned with sorrow, as she had trained it to be. She showed no outward feeling at this pronouncement, as she had not the day her father had been buried. Even with Jack there, looking at her curiously, she could still not help returning in her mind to the very day. The plague of fever seemed to have personified itself in the land; Port Royal was unseasonably hot, even for summer. Elizabeth had long since, as a matter of custom, abandoned wearing corsets though it was the fashionable thing to do, but standing in the dust and flies in a gown she had recently dyed black was enough to make her woozy. Only three soldiers from the fort could be spared to assist with the burial—the others were either lying in sickness, dead, deserted, or trying to maintain some sense of order through the colony. The air was hot and humid, sticky—the pall-bearers had almost stumbled with the coffin twice—and the lean Chaplain was sweating profusely. Before she had known it, the ceremony was over—without the fanfare as befitted a Governor. Only Commodore Norrington was there to comfort her, offering her his arm while he looked upon her with sad, distant eyes. "Will you not come in now, Elizabeth?" he asked her quietly. "The heat is quite intolerable."

"Yes, Commodore," she had said mechanically, taking his gloved hand. Even he was looking unkempt; he'd abandoned his powdered wig, and his own hair was streaming, untidy, from his military queue.

"Will recovered," she said.

"Strong lad, I 'ad no doubt," said Jack, in a voice with a larger degree of concern than befitted one who had all assurances that Will Turner had lived. The pirate hoisted his empty glass in a toast and quietly put it down when Elizabeth ignored the hint. "I am sorry 'bout your father," he added as an afterthought.

"Yes," she said frostily. "My father's accounting was sound, but his investments were not. It had been Will's original plan to gain some capital of his own after our marriage—"

"So he turned to piracy—best way to quickly gain capital," said Sparrow gaily.

"He did nothing of the kind!" snapped Elizabeth, glaring at him vituperatively. "He set sail for England to inquire what family assets he might still have there."

"And you di' not go wi' him? I am astonished indeed," he replied.

Elizabeth's anger was rapidly exploding, her cheeks flushing with it. "He didn't come back, do you understand? In the official records, William Turner is lost at sea!"

Jack looked thoughtful for a moment, stroking his beard with one dark hand. Then his look turned to disbelief. "What do you mean to imply, 'Lizabeth?"

She realized now by looking at him that he had taken her statement as an insult to his integrity—whatever integrity he believed he had. In some disgust, she murmured, "I mean to imply nothing. I mean only that the vessel on which Will sailed—the _Rose—_has not been caught sight of for three months, and neither has any of her crew or passengers . . ."

"I assure you," Jack said, with uncharacteristic hardness, "that had young Will been ta'en by any under my command, I would know."

"Yes, I realized that in asking you to meet me here," Elizabeth replied coolly. "His Majesty's Navy called off the search within a month. By this time, the officers had been ordered to relinquish Fort Charles in accordance with their poor conduct during the epidemic."

Jack pantomimed the release of a trigger on a flintlock pistol, clicking his tongue. "Ah. No Commodore. Savvy."

"Yes . . . Commodore Norrington has been recalled to London."

"Well," said Jack, feigning a yawn, "I un'erstand you perfectly, 'Lizabeth. You asked me 'ere so'd we could take the _Pearl _and search for Will."

"No, that is not what I asked you here for," Elizabeth replied.

Jack cocked his head in skepticism and surprise. "Er . . . no?"

"Well, of course that's what I mean to do—eventually!" she snapped. "But you must have noticed that the Governor's palace is as impoverished as Port Royal in general, as I have sold many of our things to pay my father's debts." Jack looked away from her briefly, and she thought she could seem him studying the room more closely, probably noticing the loose tiles on the floor that had been pulled away, the lack of a mantle clock, the empty closet where there would have been a dumb-waiter. "So what would I have to pay you with when I so obviously needed your help in order to find my husband? Captain Jack Sparrow, I'm sure you'll own, does not seek adventures without compensation."

Jack, examining his close-cut, dirty and frayed fingernails, had the grace not to argue. Instead, he said, "So I assume you 'ave a plan?"

Elizabeth smiled. His tone indicated that they were at last on equal footing. "My father's brother is Sir William Swann—a baronet, among other things. He does not yet know of my father's death, so I mean to inform him of this—in person." If Jack's ever-fluttering fingers—the fingers of a pickpocket—indicated how preoccupied his mind was, she suspected the wheels in his clever brain were turning and spinning. This encouraged Elizabeth, who found this narrative increasingly difficult to relate to the pirate sitting opposite. "My hopes—and I hardly expect to be disappointed—are that he will fund me with enough money so that I may continue the search for Will unmolested.

"When Commodore Norrington left for England, he . . ." Elizabeth dropped her glance from Jack's inquisitive stare to the fine gold trim on his coat which contrasted so tellingly with her own mediocre attire. It was going to be, er, very difficult indeed to tell him the next part. " . . . he offered to convey me there, on the condition that I might—as a widow—consider him a potential . . . future . . . husband." She sucked in a breath, embarrassed. "I refused, so I suspect I will receive no help from that quarter."

Jack looked faintly amused. "So you asked Captain Jack Sparrow, who flies a pirate flag and mans the fastest ship in the Caribbean—if not the Atlantic, mind you—to take you to your uncle." The deduction seemed to leave him well-pleased.

"But it is not merely an escort I require," Elizabeth murmured, nervously pleating her skirt in her hands, "but a husband."

"A what?" he asked, leaning closer. "A huntsman?"

"A husband, I require a husband!" Elizabeth snapped loudly.

_Blast! _she thought, chastised by his silence. Jack appeared quite rebuffed. Any semblance of a smile disappeared from his tanned face, but whether he looked more frightened or amazed, she could not say. "You want to . . . you want to marry-?"

"Not _marry _you, you dolt!" she cried, getting to her feet in a blaze of rage.

She stalked over to him, preventing herself from venting her frustration by murmuring hurriedly, "I need you to masquerade as my husband. My uncle knows of my marriage, but he has of course never seen Will. He knows only that I have married a man named Turner."

Jack peered at her fixedly, twisting the empty tumbler in his hands, his rings clinking on the glass surface. She gazed at his black-lined eyes for some sign he understood. "Pretend'n be your 'usband?" he asked skeptically. He raised one black brow. "My dear lady, what exactly 'ud that entail?"

Elizabeth exhaled slowly. She had lost her nerve to tell him what was required of him and searched desperately for a means to employ herself while she confessed the rather ridiculous nature of her plan. She took the brandy off the mantle and plucked off the crystal top, gesturing for Jack's glass. Her speech was hurried and unnatural. "Naturally I need an escort if I am to go to England, and there would be fewer . . . awkward questions if I was to have a husband. My uncle would be suspicious should I arrive seeking my inheritance without the husband I was supposed to have . . ."

"More awkward questions," Jack replied grimly, looking at the open bottle of brandy with curiosity.

"I would only plan on staying at court for a fortnight." She rushed over and began to pour the brandy with an unsteady hand.

Jack gently grabbed her wrist—his hand was rough, rougher than Will's was—and stopped her from pouring (after a decent amount of brandy had been poured, that is). She looked at him as she set down the carafe, still-pinioning her wrist.

"I un'erstand the impor'ance of finding Will," he said softly. "An' I am right flattered—though not surprised—" he winked, "at your offer. But darling, Captain Jack Sparrow can't just drop everything to take young ladies across the Atlantic—I've a reputation t' keep up, and a—"

"And a hold to keep filled with swag, I understand," Elizabeth replied rather bitterly, pulling her hand away. She tossed her head fiercely, putting away the brandy. "I would have compensated you handsomely."

He was silent—he was listening. She feigned coyness, though really she couldn't meet his gaze. She hadn't expected him to actually take her seriously with the "compensate handsomely" part; she really had no idea what she could offer him that would live up to that colorful phrase. With the same ingenuity and determination that had caused her to set an island in alcoholic flame, she went on—with remarkable calmness of voice—"I would . . . split my inheritance with you . . . seventy-thirty."

Jack waved his hand airily, bringing the tumbler to his lips but not consuming more than a mouthful. "I would not e'en consider it for less'n forty-sixty."

"Fine, then," said Elizabeth impatiently. "Forty-sixty."

He smiled at her, though whether or not he was genuinely pleased with the offer she did not know. _Perhaps I gave in too quickly, _she thought, trembling. _Perhaps if I had haggled a little more . . . _"In banknotes, Mrs. Turner?" he asked with sarcasm. "To be honored only at establishments that might not overlook _this?" _And he pulled up the cuff of his shirt-sleeve to reveal the tell-tale brand of pirate, the eponymous 'p.'

She stared a little as he hurriedly covered the brand with something approaching embarrassment—as if Captain Jack Sparrow could be embarrassed. Coolly, she went back to the mantle and took his now drained glass as she went. "Not banknotes, Mr. Sparrow, no. But gold. And land."

"Land?" Jack scoffed, nevertheless accepting the brandy.

"Yes, land," she retorted. "Property is the most valuable asset in England. Owning land means owning taxes. And surely you would like a place in which to settle—"

"Mrs. Turner," he said, excessively formally, in a display on pareil with the most distinguished Earl's put-down speech, "I owe nothing to the land. The sea is my life, savvy, and take away a man's life . . ." He sighed—a real, genuine sigh?—and stared, somewhat sadly she thought, into his half-empty glass. "And you're forgetin' one very impor'ant thing, 'Lizabeth."

"What's that?" She was half curious, half annoyed—in fact, very annoyed. More annoyed than curious, really. But then if she was really so very annoyed, she wouldn't have felt sullen when he took his time in answering her.

"Ain't _no _pirates gonna go anywhere near Hangman's Dock."

Elizabeth had nothing to reply. This was indeed a significant flaw in her plan. Still—still— She looked at Jack. He was polishing off the last of the brandy, looking rather lethargic. She suddenly felt a very real fear, a hand plunging deep inside her stomach and _squeezing. _She had had time to think about what she would say when Jack Sparrow arrived to convince him to help her. She'd tried every tactic that came to her mind. And there was no one else in the Caribbean who would help her—or could complete this unlikely plan successfully. Suddenly that squeezing fist wrenched up into her lungs, causing her to choke.

The noise startled Jack. "But you're Captain Jack Sparrow!" she cried loudly in one last desperate attempt. "You're the most daring, the cleverest, the . . . craziest pirate of them all!"

"You tried this line on me once 'fore, love," he answered quietly, although not unkindly.

"I asked you to help me!" Elizabeth cried, shaking now with emotion. "I trusted you—because I believed . . . I believed . . . in you. Even if half the things I've read about you are untrue, I'm still positively certain your particular talent for acting out of inconvenient situations is rivaled by no one! I asked you . . . to help me . . ." She could not go on; she turned away from him.

"Elizabeth . . ." she heard him murmur, heard him get to his feet (but not set down the glass of brandy).

"No use staying here, is there, when you've got a ship to go back to?" she muttered, moving away, her skirts swishing loudly. "Better keep an eye on that crew of yours or you'll have another mutiny on your hands—"

If she had meant to say more in the way of crude, insulting remarks—which she probably had—she was stopped cold by a warning hand gripping her shoulder rather tightly. His wiry arm, possessed of a deceptively substantial amount of strength, turned her to look at him.

"If you even think—" she began.

"None o' your high-toned talk, Mrs. Turner," he said quietly, leaning in close to her. They had been this close before on a number of occasions, none of them proper or particularly enjoyable to recall, and then she had found herself remarking on his stench, or again his teeth. Now, she was forced to look into his eyes, which were glowing rather dangerously. "I don' respond favorably t'insults, 'specially when I'm being asked for favors, aye?" His voice was hushed, like a dagger cutting through silk. _It's strange, _she thought. _Sometimes there's an imperiousness that comes into his voice . . . he sounds . . . grander. _He still hadn't released her arm.

"We was square a long time ago, or don' you recall?" It seemed the slightest of smiles flickered across his face.

She jerked her arm away. "Yes, I'm sorry. But if you're not going to help me—"

"I want gold and nothin' else," he interrupted crisply. "Or . . ." And here he paused, looking at her thoughtfully and stroking his dark beard, which shone in the light with all its trinkets and beads.

"What else could you possibly want?" Elizabeth burst out, not at all comfortable at the way he was looking at her.

He ignored her, taking a sip of the nearly drained glass. "Might your uncle be able to write me a letter of marque, d'ye think?"

Elizabeth's first reaction was of absurdity, but she said only, "It's . . . possible."

"Then that," he said, handing her the empty glass, "is what I desire."

"All right," she said, her voice deceptively steady as she looked at him. "Our words on it, then?" She held out her long arm with the proportionately long and delicate fingers on the end of it. He stared at it for a moment. "Oh, you don't—" she said flusteredly, remembering the brand shamefacedly. He took her hand before she could draw it back and shook it firmly. Too firmly, she thought, but said nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II.

"It was rotten meat and weevily bread

Leave her Johnny, leave her!

Eat her or starve, the Old Man said,

Leave her Johnny, leave her!"

--sea shanty

Elizabeth's bedchamber was bare. Her high, paneled poster bed had been robbed of its curtains and bore a shabby counterpane. The frame was exhausted and smelled like something was slowly molding between the sheets. That was why she spent the least time possible in bed, slipping into the worn covers only for a few hours a night.

She had in fact taken to falling asleep on her small table, once meant as a vanity, and that was where morning found her. She woke from a dark sleep, her body tense and aching from her position, hunched over the table. Her face and hands were stained with the black ink of the map that she had been drawing before falling asleep on top of it. The map was drawn shakily, unsure; she'd been trying to plot the course from Jamaica to England with the aid of nautical pamphlets that were several years the worse for wear and probably inaccurate.

"Mrs. Turner," said the maid, from behind her.

"What is it, Es—?" Elizabeth blurted, wiping her face embarrassedly and almost forgetting herself in her haste. Estrella, her maid for eight years, had vanished the night of the attack on Port Royal, a year and a half before. There was still an emptiness in Elizabeth that kept wanting to look up familiarly at Estrella's face. But Estrella was no more; there was Harriet, who was dour, about thirty, and had lost several of her teeth. She feared nothing and was suspicious of everyone.

"There's a man in the parlor, Mrs. Turner."

Elizabeth shook out her skirt, embarrassed but not surprised to have found herself falling asleep in the same gown she had worn the day before. She was about to snap, "Yes, of course," but, as she smoothed her flighty hair down, she asked, "Is he waking?" She looked at Harriet, who gave a hobbled curtsy by way of answer. Elizabeth wiped her hands on her skirt again, deciding, quite sensibly, she was sure, that she didn't care in what state Jack Sparrow saw her. Being alone with him on a palm-fringed scrap of sand in her under-things could certainly have no equal in terms of impropriety.

As she walked briskly into the parlor behind Harriet's awkward, limping gait, Elizabeth's tall shoes clacked on the floor. When dismissed, the maid gazed at the prostrate shape of Jack Sparrow on the floor, suppressed a hoarse giggle, and left the room. Elizabeth herself succumbed to amusement. Here was this terror of the high seas, sprawled out and passed out on the floor, his patched and mismatched attributes coated in dust, his mouth slightly open. She saw that he was stirring, and soon a dark beringed finger flew from his side to rub his black-lined eyelid. A groan escaped him as both of his bloodshot bug eyes popped open.

He was hung-over and disoriented, Elizabeth thought smugly. The most mercenary part of her wondered what price she might receive monetarily to haul him, deranged and drunk like this, into the fort. _None of that_, she solidly reprimanded herself;Jack was her friend, and furthermore, he had pledged to help her in her scheme.

"Good morning, Mr. Sparrow," she said lightly, with a hint of mockery in her voice, as she swept past him to retrieve the empty brandy bottle and tumbler from the floor.

"Mornin'," the pirate replied, gingerly pulling himself to an upright position and coughing to stifle an ill-timed hiccup. Holding his head between his hands and shaking himself back to reality, he added, "It's _Captain _Sparrow." He began to comb his wind-woven hair between his dirty fingers, trying to brush out the crumbs from the floor. He belched and muttered something like an apology as Elizabeth set the empty glass on her marquetry table. "Why'd you let me drink s'much?"

Elizabeth turned, torn between gleeful surprise at his half-baked state and real sympathy. "Imagine me 'letting' you do anything." She peered at him, almost convinced he couldn't remember who she was, where he was, and why he was on the floor. "I thought you could handle your liquor."

He lurched to his feet comically, somehow managing to lose his battered hat in the process, the trinkets in his hair jingling in harmonious protest. " 'S not me fault me wanderin' vagrant status prevents me from tasting the fullest of the vintages . . ." He eyed her. ". . . Mrs. Turner."

Elizabeth jammed her fists onto her hips in surprise. He _did_ remember. He hardly looked seaworthy, but she had to smile at his outrageous appearance. They had been through much together, certainly not by choice, but they were alive—in some ways because of each other. For a moment, he seemed to share her look, smiling a little, as if in understanding. She had to look away: his smile, when genuine, warmed her heart in a way she would admit to no one. He shouldered his pistol belt intently, then said cheerily, "I think I'd best be off. I've tarried here too long."

Elizabeth's smile faded. "Wait a moment. You can't leave yet. I'm not ready."

Jack looked at her, visibly confused, playing with the ends of his moustache as if engaged in deep philosophical thought. "What d'ye mean, not ready?"

Elizabeth strode forward quickly, as if leaving no room for doubt. Her pretty, youthful face—already prematurely furrowed with worry lines—steeled in a grim look. "Our agreement. You agreed to take me to London and . . ." She waited for him to catch on. Light dawned in his dark eyes, but then his look grew trivial—she knew what he was going to say. Savagely, she barked: "We shook on it!"

Sparrow chuckled, taking a few steps toward the young woman with his characteristic languorous gait. "Mrs. Turner, the things we do in our weaker moments . . ."

His disingenuous tone, designed to placate, incensed her. "I swore I'd pay you half my inheritance! A month's trouble and-and-and your fortune made!"

Jack stood in front of her, considering. "What is't you need to do?" he asked dubiously.

Elizabeth picked up her skirts in anticipation. "I have my things together," she put in eagerly. "I just need to get changed into something suitable."

He had been chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip as he had been listening to her, but once she mentioned the word "suitable," he gave her the insincere look he often reserved for those of the fairer sex. "I seem t' remember you havin' no qualms about chasin' 'round the Caribbean in—" his wide eyes comically bulged as he traced a female shape through the air "—naught but a shift . . ."

Elizabeth flushed dramatically. She found herself swimming in a red haze, anger flooding behind her eyes. Her limbs seemed to move of their own volition. She strode forward. Her hand slammed across Jack's chest, as if to knock the wind out of him. Instead she wrenched his pistol from the belt and drew it out. "You seem to be under the impression that I had a choice in the matter!"

They both stumbled back. Her arm trembled, but steadily she held the gun at arm's length and pointed it at his head. Jack's hands hung in the air around the pistol belt, frozen there in shock. The look he gave her was only mildly concerned, as if the haze of drunkenness had not relinquished him completely. "Wha' are you doin', love?" he asked softly, staring into the barrel as he might have glanced at the gibbet in the distance.

"You have to keep your promise, Jack," Elizabeth insisted firmly, her voice shaking like that of a young girl. Her voice may have been trembling, but her hands were surprisingly steady. Jack glanced at her dubiously. She sucked back a sob of frustration and pent-up anger, anticipating him. "Even if you still carry one shot, I can't help but hit you at this range."

Jack looked into her eyes. His voice was soft. "S'not even loaded."

Elizabeth's first—and justified—response was to lower the pistol and check the powder and bullets. But she mastered this novice's reaction and held the gun steady at the level of the pirate's eyes. "I don't believe you," she said, her brow contracting. She cocked the gun, inhaling deeply to drown out the unbelievable sound of her hammering heart. _I don't want to kill you, Jack, _she thought. _Stop being such a fool._

"Don' be such a fool, 'Lizabeth," Jack said gingerly. When she made no response, he appeared to be considering his options, though his black-rimmed eyes bulged in obvious alarm when she cocked the pistol. His twitching fingers grasped at the air, a sign to Elizabeth that his mind was at work. Sure enough, he began taking a few dainty, cautious steps toward her, shuffling and with a conciliatory look.

"Don't move any closer, Mr. Sparrow . . ." Elizabeth threatened, shivering a little as her arms began to grow tired. A little bit of sweat broke out on her forehead. She licked her upper lip, tasting salt.

Jack stopped and cleared his throat. He nonchalantly scratched his head underneath the dark red of his scarf. He folded his hands in front of his chest, a steeple. "You wouldn't do . . . it," he declared politely, though his raised eyebrow betrayed his lack of conviction.

Elizabeth swallowed, her shoulders quivering. "All right," she said crisply, losing no face as she pulled the gun away from Sparrow and lined the barrel against her temple. The metal was cold, and she was beginning to feel feverish.

Jack threw up his arms in complete despair. "Jus' like that boy!" he exclaimed. "Impossibly self-sacrificin'!"

Elizabeth's lips were tight in a grim mockery of a smile. Though her finger trembled on the trigger and easily could have meant the end of her life, she was confident that she would not have to resort to shooting herself. In truth, she much rather would have shot Jack than herself, but she knew his weakness for lost causes.

"You 'ad too much to drink las' night," was Sparrow's exasperated reaction.

Elizabeth scowled at him. "_I_ didn't drink anything last night!" Jack shrugged his shoulders cheekily. "You know that if I pull this trigger," Elizabeth said slowly, playing her trump, "it won't look like a suicide. It'll look like murder, murder by someone desperate, a desperate pirate, and who should happen to—"

"All ri'," Jack said quietly, holding out his dirty fingers in surrender.

Joshamee Gibbs liked nothing better than the bitter taste of whiskey from his own personal flask. Sure, he could drain a dirty mug or two of ale easily enough in a Tortuga dive, but it was his own drink that he took to best. The air was mild and cool this morning moored behind the craggy rocks, out of sight of Port Royal harbor. " 'S going to be a winnin' day, says I," he bespoke robustly from the quarter-deck of the _Black Pearl. _

"Red sky at morning, sailor's warning," cackled the red parrot as it bobbed its head idiotically from Peter Cotton's shoulder.

"Ah, yer bird be daft, Cotton!" Gibbs snapped, throwing two burly arms at Cotton in exasperation. Cotton, having just completed his task of scouring the side ladder, gave Gibbs a quizzical look before turning away. "Dah!" muttered Gibbs, taking another hard swig from his flask.

"You drink yourself to death someday, Mr. Gibbs." Gibbs turned and saw the lithe shape of AnaMaria, who had evidently just swung down from the jib-boom, repairing a section of the wood. Up there was the best place for the lassie, Gibbs thought privately, peering rather pointedly at her backside. Scratching his steel-grey sideburns with a woeful grin, he reflected that perhaps his old prejudice against having the weaker sex aboard had been proven false. Figure or no figure, she was an able seaman.

"And what it's to ye, Miss AnaMaria, should I drink meself to Duffy?" Gibbs dryly observed as the young Creole woman joined him on deck.

"Oh, 'tis nothing at all to me, I assure you, sir," AnaMaria replied blandly. "I might enjoy being firs' mate and your share of the booty, that's a fact." She regarded Gibbs primly before reaching inside her trouser pocket for a spyglass. As she brought it up to her eye, Gibbs offered her a swig from his flask. She shook her head firmly, the soft dark hair under her broad hat and bandana blowing. "I see enough men lose their senses with the drink." Her pointed look left Gibbs in no doubt of whom she meant.

"You sure smoke up a storm with yer tobacky-weed," Gibbs commented sulkily, wrapping his great, brawny arms across his chest after tucking the flask away.

AnaMaria laughed from behind the spyglass. Gibbs had to admit there was nothing so lovely as the sight of a beautiful woman clad in a pretty dress, but AnaMaria didn't look half bad in her men's gear of hat, bandana, paisley-print calico shirt open at the throat under a mean-looking necklace of cowries and shark's teeth, her broad belt, wide trousers, and knee-high boots. She seemed to be able to sense his staring at her and flicked an angry look at him before squinting at the horizon. "Jack was supposed to be back over an hour ago." She looked up at the limp sails.

"Oh, aye, Miss," Gibbs said. "but ye know Jack—'as a habit of miscalculatin' time, Jack does." He looked at her covertly. "You wouldna be worrying about our ol' Jack, now—?"

"Don't be daft, man," she snapped. "Thought we was to keep to the Code, is all." She placed the spyglass back in her pocket.

"Haven't I told ye enough times, woman? Code is more like guidelines. The sooner you learn that, the better."

"Forgive me for tryin' to give some purpose to this here rough-and-tumble life we lead," AnaMaria said coldly, glancing back at the sailor Moises who was now lazily ascending the rope ladders on the mizzen mast.

"Look here, madam: 'twas one thing I couldn't abide about His Majesty's Royal Navy." Gibbs stuck a stubby finger at her. "That was: them rules, rules, rules all the time. Stodgy. Stubborn. Keep clean about the brisket—"

"His Majesty's Royal Navy," AnaMaria interrupted with extreme sarcasm, "would never let a woman on board its ships unless she were a—"

"I don't know about _yer _past, an' I don't care to!" Gibbs went on, cutting her off. "If the _Black Pearl _is anything—if piratin' is anything—it's fer doin' as the wind calls, as 'twas natural." Gibbs' look turned philosophical, like a physician about to deliver a treatise. "Well-oiled a crew, we be. Navy 'as to issue orders. We, we just understan'. Understan' it without Jack having to say more than a word. Natural-like."

AnaMaria rolled her eyes. "Fascinating."

"Wind in yer sails, wind in yer sails," added the parrot as Cotton strode by to go below deck.

"See, Cotton agrees," Gibbs muttered.

"Damn the man who stole my boat!" AnaMaria muttered.

Several of the pirates turned and looked at them. AnaMaria played with the brim of her hat nervously. "Honestly, woman, ye're a right mercenary," Gibbs said darkly.

"Your nose is once again fallin' into other people's business, Mr. Gibbs," AnaMaria said, narrowing her eyes in a significant look. A chorus of rowdy laughter was going to accompany Gibbs' retort, but they were interrupted by a cry from the top of the main mast. Crimp, light and suited for high yard work, was calling down below, "Ahoy! Boat off the larboard side. I think it's Captain Sparrow."

AnaMaria rushed to the larboard side of the hull, straightening up when Gibbs gave her an I-told-you-so look. "Ah, very good,' the old salt said. The crew busied themselves as best a pirate crew could to look good for their captain, and even AnaMaria had to admit they shined up well on occasion. They watched the little rowboat, hardly seaworthy, come in closer. The sun was high and glinting on the waves, but they were almost certain there was someone else in the boat beside their fearless leader. This puzzled them, but not overmuch.

It wasn't until Jack emerged from the larboard side, having climbed up the rigging, that any questions could be asked. He appeared, the imitable Captain Sparrow, eyes black-rimmed and swimming, and there was a scowl on his face that could challenge Old Hobb.

"Welcome back, Captain Sparrow," said Gibbs circumspectly, half-saluting.

"How are you rascals?" Jack growled, a tiny smile showing through his moustache as he surveyed the crew, trying to look menacing. "Keeping my ship in good working order, I hope."

"Aye aye sir!" shouted one of the crew, at which everyone chuckled. Their laughter was interrupted, however, by the sight of Elizabeth Turner climbing up over the side, following Jack. Was she put out that he hadn't helped her? Perhaps. She landed on the deck with a shout.

The crew fell silent, even Cotton's fidgety parrot. Gibbs gasped. "Miss Elizabeth!" He ran forward to help her down. She took his hand, weather-cracked as it was, warmly, happy to see a familiar face. "I have to say I never thought I'd see the likes o' ye again!"

"Yes, Mr. Gibbs," Elizabeth replied. "And it's Mrs. Turner now."

"Aye, indeed?"

Jack stood off to the side, slouching in his gentleman's coat, and with his hat rakishly cocked to the side. He steadfastly refused to look at Elizabeth or at the crew, and developed a passionate interest in a knot hole on the deck railing.

AnaMaria was glaring steadfastly at him until Elizabeth exclaimed aloud, "AnaMaria!" Everyone looked at her. "It's just that—I thought you would have your own ship by now." Everyone looked at Jack.

"Aye, I _should_," she said pointedly, narrowing her eyes at Jack.

Jack clasped his hands together merrily. "Well, as the 'ole crew seems to be interested in our new passenger, I'll leave ye t'get better acquainted." He glanced at Gibbs. "Mr. Gibbs, I expect you t'oversee our making way." Gibbs opened his mouth. "S'an order, Mr. Gibbs, just follow the course we planned out, eh?" He touched the side of his nose significantly, winking. And he dashed down the decks to his cabin and slammed the door.

Elizabeth bit her lip and stared. The crew stared back. Gibbs, fingering anxiously for his flask, shrugged. AnaMaria eyed him. "Get t'it then! You, there!" He thrust an oxish hand at Angus Duncan, stumbling as usual. "Hoist the sails, and be quick on't! We'll catch the wind yet!"

With a bit of hesitancy, the ragged but sound crew had leapt to action, weighing anchor and tipping their hats over their eyes to hide from the rowdy sun. Elizabeth stood awkwardly near the prow where she had stepped off. The _Black Pearl, _light and fast as she was, immediately gulped the wind in her sails and shoved off. Elizabeth brought her hand to her eyes, shielding herself from the sun, as she peered up at the top mast, fast catching in the wind. She realized she probably should have added a broad-brimmed hat to her ensemble, which complemented her figure not much. Her hair stiffly plaited down her back, a faded red neckerchief around her throat—no one but she knew it was Will's that he had managed to leave behind. Her leather jerkin and heavy men's coat—with sleeves too long for her—hung over her wool breeches that ended a little below the knee; her clocked stockings, held up primly by unseen garters, were the only uncompromisingly feminine piece about her.

At her booted feet was a leather trunk, embarrassingly monogrammed with her father's initials in gold filigree. She tried to hide it with her feet, noticing—or believing she did—that some of the pirates had taken a curious interest in it. They were Jack's crew, certainly, but she still wasn't entirely sure she could trust them. Not that there was really much of value in it: her money she kept in a pouch on a string slung down her shirt. Her bag contained a few articles of clothing, including a skirt should she ever need to appear properly attired, some cut bandages in case the surgeon was as scatterbrained as Jack. A map of London. But these things certainly set her apart from the others who, she was sure, had little but booze and talismans to call their own.

As if confirming her own nervous state of mind, Elizabeth turned and found the woman called AnaMaria sidling up to her, hands in her trouser pockets. A carved pipe dangled from the belt at her waist.

"Elizabeth Turner," said AnaMaria.

Elizabeth tried to smile, the muscles in her face tightening involuntarily. "Yes. And you are AnaMaria, so I gathered. I don't think we've been formally introduced." She held out her hand.

AnaMaria looked down. She thrust her palm into Elizabeth's. The dark, rough, salt-hewed hand of the sea-woman, whose nails were flailed to scraps by her work on the top masts, completely dwarfed Elizabeth's, pale and diminutive. AnaMaria hocked up and spat overboard. She let Elizabeth's hand go with a shrug. "Aye, we haven't." She looked sharply up. A thick hempen cord had come lose from its halyard and was threatening to dislocate from the sails. "Throw me that rope, there."

Nonplussed, Elizabeth hauled the rope, slung it around her shoulder, and threw it to AnaMaria. AnaMaria handled it in short, yet fluid movements, tying hefty sailors' knots through it. Elizabeth could only stare in awe. AnaMaria squinted. "And aye, I should have my own boat by now. And while ye may be wonderin' why exactly that hasn't come to pass, I seem t'have a more pressing question meself."

"Which is?"

"Ye showed yerself capable enough of keeping alive, but if ye're married an' all, whatchabe doing' out on a pirate ship?"

The question was pointed and threatening. Elizabeth recalled AnaMaria's suggestion when the _Interceptor _was under attack to auction her off to the unholy miscreants aboard the _Black Pearl. _There was no reason to believe she wouldn't do something similar again. There was, therefore, no reason to tell her the truth.

"Well, really, AnaMaria, I don't see what it is to you." She smiled, falsely sweet.

AnaMaria's shoulders hunched. Then she laughed. "No need to get up in arms, milady," she said with a silky mockery reminiscent of Jack's. "Crazy is as crazy does . . ."

Elizabethhad heard that before._ "Crazy like Jack . . ." _

"Excuse me, ladies," came the voice of Gibbs, who, by the look of him, was trying desperately not to laugh. Elizabeth and AnaMaria turned, both gazing at him with cool stares. "B-but I am charged by, uh, the C-Captain," he sputtered, "to bring Miss Eliz—I mean, Mrs. Turner, to her—er—quarters." He coughed. "Right away."

Elizabeth's skin was burning with the prolonged exposure to the sun and the curious conversation with AnaMaria. She stooped to grab the brass handles of her trunk as she followed Gibbs down into the lower decks. It was damp and acrid below though not particularly cool; she was relieved, however, to find that the overwhelmingly stale scent of rot and decay that had flooded the decks the last time she'd been aboard the _Black Pearl _was gone—mostly. There was the scent of human toil, but that at least was natural. She wrinkled her nose. Also sulfur, which she had heard was used to purify the air from time to time. At least these pirates had some semblance of cleanliness.

They quickly came to the gun deck, where the crew slung their hammocks. At first Elizabeth thought they were sacks of gunpowder, heavy with their burden, hanging from the deck above and swaying with the current of the ship. But then she realized they were in fact, raggedy quilts, burlap sacks, and the like. She was a little put off by the fact they were right next to the guns but at least the open deck allowed for some ventilation. Gibbs was grunting as they weaved between the hammocks, devoid of their occupants. He showed her to one far aft and in a corner by itself. She remembered how she'd once spoken to Commodore Norrington (when he was still a captain) about Navy accommodations. "Each seaman is allotted no more than fourteen inches, Miss Swann," he had said.

"That doesn't seem like very much," she had said softly. Now she saw that it wasn't. She was surprised to see a small curtain of pale pink fabric, filched from God knew where, separating it off from the others. Gibbs cleared his throat. "These be your 'commodations, Mrs. Turner. I know they might'n't be the cabin-cots ye're used to, bein' a lady an' all—"

Elizabeth affected a laugh, dry even to her ears. "Mr. Gibbs, as you well know, the first night I spent aboard this ship, I was huddled in a corner of the captain's dining cabin."

"Well, I cannot argue w' that," exclaimed the rough old sailor, clapping his hands together with a terrific noise. "Anyhow, Cap'n ordered me to erect this little curtain for yer convenience." He fingered the material daintily between his fingers like a young bridegroom would the apple-cheeks of his bride.

"Indeed," said Elizabeth. _Could Jack really be so thoughtful? _she wondered. A fluke, surely, or some ulterior motive. There was always an ulterior motive for Jack. "Does AnaMaria have a curtain?"

Gibbs gazed upward, humming, drumming his broad finger against his chin. "Not when I come to think o' it, though needs be she's accorded certain privileges what we call 'alone time'."

_Very comforting, _Elizabeth thought. "Well, if she doesn't have a curtain, I certainly don't need one."

"No, s'awful bad luck to mix womanly concerns amongst this lot," said Gibbs, troubled. "Women on board a sailing ship—I've always said—"

"You once told me," interrupted Elizabeth, "that singing pirate shanties would bring the cursed pirates down upon us, do you remember that?"

"Well, I were right, weren't I!"

Just then, a rolling wave bumped them back and forth. Elizabeth knocked her forehead on a lintel beam but recovered. "Damn 'em if they can't steer a ship but to doomsday!" Gibbs snapped, shaking his fist upwards. "I had better get back up on the poop deck."

"Wait!" Elizabeth cried. "Am I to stay here?"

"You are to take t'opportunity to rest," said Gibbs carefully as if reciting from a practiced script. "And frankly, missy, I think you could use a coupl'a'winks."

"Oh?" Elizabeth touched the black circles under her eyes involuntarily, then her hollow cheekbones.

"I . . . uh . . . heard about yer father."

Elizabeth shuddered a little, not meaning to react at all. "Yes," she croaked in a voice that gone very faint.

"I'm very sorry fer yer loss, 'Lizabeth." Gibbs, his brows mournfully raised like a London Thespian, reached a hand to pat her shoulder and then drew back. "What I knew o' the governor—which wasn't much, I admit to ye—he were a good man, very gentleman-like."

Elizabeth felt her head pounding. "Yes, thank you," she whispered. Gibbs whipped out his flask and offered her a drink. The smell of the alcohol alone was enough to bring her to her senses, but the thought of consuming anything resembling rum made her wave the offer away. "And, Mr. Gibbs," she said, "this may seem highly irregular, but where might I put this chest? It contains some very valuable items, and . . ." She looked at him guiltily.

"I see," Gibbs said cryptically. "A pirate's motto is to 'take what you can.'"

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I heard Will say that once." She caught herself but it was too late. The pain in the cavity of her chest stung unmercifully. Gibbs opened his mouth to say something, but was prevented by another swell of the ship. "Blast it!" he cried. Then he said to Elizabeth, "I will take your trunk to the Cap'n's cabin, where 'twill be safe."

_Of course it will, _she thought sarcastically.

After Gibbs had gone, Elizabeth gingerly sat into the crook of her hammock. It was true that she had never crossed an ocean in the greatest of comfort, but the thin canvas seemed neither inviting nor safe, especially swinging so close to the cannons. She thought of Port Royal, quickly becoming no more than a speck seen on a clear day from the top mast. She was leaving it behind, and God knew where she was headed next.

Her thoughts naturally turned to Will. She remembered being in the hold of the _Interceptor _with him as he tenderly but clumsily tied a bandage around her injured hand. She shivered. She could see Will's dark brown, expansive eyes, glowing with affection and kindheartedness at her. How she did long for his arms again, for his sweet caresses and the words he would whisper to her . . .

She was alone. She thought about Harriet and the footman, cook, and groom still left at the Governor's mansion and if they would flee immediately, find passage on a schooner out. Would anyone in Port Royal even notice she was gone? Her father was dead. James Norrington was oceans away. _Gibbs_, she thought desperately, _Gibbs at least still has some kindness for me. _

"Straighten up, Elizabeth," she said to herself, stiffening her spine, rocking listlessly in the hammock. "This is no time for self-pity."

What could she have done? She was practically rotting in Port Royal, rotting of internal fear and loneliness. At least now she might have a chance, however small, to find her husband. She had to find him. Jack was right to scoff, she thought. Apart from planning the aim of her great scheme, she had not so much as figured a bearing for the voyage, and hadn't thought how a pirate ship was supposed to sail up the Thames and drop her into her uncle's lap.

Could she trust Jack? she wondered. She had nearly had to kill him to earn his part in the adventure—who was to say he wouldn't break his word and just ignore her presence on the ship? He was the captain, and the crew was certainly beholden to him. If even a few had stood up for her, Elizabeth was certain no one could convince Jack Sparrow to do anything he didn't want to. She had hoped her lure of gold and a letter of marque would be enough to tempt him, but now she was not so sure.

Her thoughts had made her feverish, and her head had begun to ache. Bitterly, she murmured to no one, "Perhaps I should take some rest after all." Rest? What she really wanted was fresh water; she was so hot all of a sudden. New perspiration had formed on her forehead over her extremely pale skin. She gulped, remembering how listless, how detached from her body it had felt when she had caught the fever. With that, she slid into the hammock, kicking off her boots. For a few moments, she lay in sweaty agony, beginning to feel sea-sick in addition to faint. Then, everything changed . . .

Someone—a man—was speaking to her in a low, careful voice, and she knew there was a certain importance in what he was saying. But who was it? And why couldn't she understand him? She felt her limbs burning up and losing feeling, and she hadn't any breath at all to say, "I can't breathe!" She was feeling so hot, much too hot, on fire, and then cold, so very cold, but couldn't even see anymore . . .

All at once, she felt much more at ease, as though she had gently settled. But she was still very cold, her skin feeling brackish, clammy. She gasped and choked out a throat full of water, spilling it over her side where it gathered in her stringy hair. She opened her eyes, shocked that they had been closed, and a thousand sensations assailed her at once.

She was chilled, her gown soaked and clinging wetly to her. Heavens!—she wasn't wearing her gown—she was dressed merely in her thin, wispy chemise and bodice of batiste. No wonder, then, she was so cold! Where on earth had her gown gone? Why was she indecently sprawled on the gangway below Fort Charles, peering into the ocean, instead of upon the parapet, nervously avoiding Commodore Norrington's gaze?

"Never would'ave thought o' that!" a voice said above her. It was a marine's voice, she thought at once; she knew it vaguely.

"Clearly, you've never been to Singapore," said another voice, this one entirely unfamiliar. She noted vaguely that the corset in which she had so recently been suffocating was gone to wherever her gown had disappeared. She tilted her head upwards—the sunlight was hurting her eyes—to look at the new speaker.

For a brief instant, a halo of light clouded her vision, and she could neither see nor move. She prayed in girlish anxiety, _I hope it's Will, _even though her rationality knew it could not be. But soon she realized she had never seen a face before like this. It was not Will Turner by any means, but a man leaning over her with a short dagger in his gnarled, sooty hands and a strange expression on his face. His age she could not immediately determine. He was tanned in a way that immediately signified to her an old salt. There was something glinting strangely in his teeth. Ah. Some of them were made of gold.

Suddenly her mind started to work, choking into action. She must have fainted, fallen from the parapet into the ocean, and been saved by this raffish-looking individual who bore some great resemblance to the pirates she had read about in several broadsides. He was crouched over her, the two marine sentries holding their ground nervously. The lobster-red of their uniforms (indeed, she had nicknamed them lobsters when she was a child) contrasted tellingly with the wild state of the man looking down at her, as did their pasty and confused faces, while his seemed to contain a vast amount of mystery. She had just thought of thrusting her elbows underneath her body in order to view her rescuer more clearly when he reached one dark hand toward her. She started, shocked that a stranger might have the impudence to caress her near-bare breast in plain view of all assembled—Oh. Well. He had taken up the pirate medallion on its chain around her throat and was lifting it, gazing back at her. "Where did you get that?" he asked in a cryptic voice.

If Elizabeth had even been able to form a reply—she was far too mystified by the unknown man's strange interest in her pirate medallion—she was prevented by the cutting voice of the Commodore. "On your feet," he said imperiously, bringing an undoubtedly sharpened blade to the throat of the man leaning over her.

"Elizabeth!" she heard her father exclaim, followed by the naval tattoo of several pairs of feet running down the gangway. Her father hauled her to her feet, bundling her up in his ornamental coat. "Are you all right?"

Elizabeth could see her father's worried look without even glancing at him. Elizabeth loved her father—he was generous, indulgent, and erudite—but in many ways naïve. The worried look that would crease his brow was almost tiresome to her as more of a reflexive action than an expression of genuine concern. "Yes, I'm fine," she muttered, looking instead at her rescuer, dripping and damp as she was as he gazed warily at the Commodore.

Then she saw one of the marines holding the open sides of her corset, salmon pink, like a fish freshly gutted out of its skin. Her father saw as well, looked at the stranger, and blustered, "Shoot him!"

"Father!" Elizabeth snapped, nonchalantly dragging the medallion back into her bodice and out of sight. "Commodore, do you really intend to kill my rescuer?"

Elizabeth looked at James Norrington, his eyes dark and inscrutable. The others around them shifted uncomfortably. She hazarded a glance at the man who had just saved her life. He looked back at her and, pressing his fingers together in a sort of salute, (Elizabeth had seen an illustration of a Hindoo doing the same) nodded effacingly to her.

"I believe thanks are in order," said the Commodore crisply, holding out a jacketed arm. The pale lace at his cuff trembled. Elizabeth took a step closer to the raffish-looking man. He was staring in a sort of cautious dumbfoundedness at the offered hand. Eventually he evinced one of his own, with a daintiness Elizabeth could not reconcile with his appearance. She jumped, too, when the Commodore tore the faintly dirty shirt sleeve away from the other man's wrist. Elizabeth sucked in an incredulous breath. There, plainly for everyone to see, was a small scar in the shape of a 'p.' She winced along with the pirate. She'd heard of, but never seen, the pirate's brand. "Had a brush with the East India Company, did we . . . pirate?"

"Hang him!" Elizabeth's father snapped, his arm still protectively around her.

"Keep your guns on him, men," Norrington ordered. "Gillette, fetch some irons." Elizabeth heard, rather than saw, Lieutenant Gillette's small form dash up the gangway. Her attention was focused on the pirate. Norrington tore away the pirate's sleeve, revealing a blue-stained tattoo further up his tanned arm. Elizabeth couldn't make out what it was. "Well, well . . . Jack Sparrow, isn't it?" Norrington dropped the pirate's arm with absurd disdain.

Elizabeth took another step forward, trying to pull away from her father. Jack Sparrow! Of course, that tattoo must be of a bird in flight, she mused. The description now made sense: the peculiar arrangement of his hair—supposedly trinkets collected from every man he'd killed—the eyes supposedly burned black from gazing at the depths of Hell—well, she could see now it was only eye-black—though she had expected him to be much taller . . .

"_Captain _Jack Sparrow, if you please, sir."

"Well, I don't see your ship, _Captain." _

Elizabeth waited for the stunning response worthy of printing in the annals of pirate literature: a cutting, but not overly vulgar barb that would set down Commodore Norrington—who already needed a good setting-down—quite bewilderingly. Something she could repeat with pride to the other females at the fort and watch them, sickeningly, go into the vapors.

"I'm in the market, as 't were," said Jack. Elizabeth slumped.

"He said he'd come to commandeer one," said one of the roly-poly marines self-importantly.

"Toldja he was telling the truth," snapped the other one. "These are his, sir." He shoved a bundle toward Norrington. Elizabeth peered forward anxiously.

Norrington handled the .69 caliber sea service pistol, commenting with a smug, "No additional shot nor powder . . ." He opened the rectangular case of a compass, grimacing at it, ". . . a compass that doesn't point North . . ." He drew out the simple cutlass—nothing to the Commodore's dress sword, to be sure—and scoffed. "And I half expected it to be made of wood." Jack smiled faintly as Norrington glanced at him scornfully. "You are without doubt the worst pirate I've ever heard of."

Elizabeth chewed the inside of her cheek. She was almost certain the Commodore knew Jack Sparrow—if this was him—had sacked Nassau Port without firing a single shot. Clearly, the fact that his current armaments were sub-par had little bearing on his quality as a smuggler, buccaneer and overall miscreant. _Clearly_, Commodore Norrington was undervaluing his abilities.

Jack apparently thought so as well, as he replied with a proud, "But you _have _heard of me."

Elizabeth had hoped he would go on and boldly relate some of his exploits (for example, his impersonation of an officer of the Spanish Royal Navy, a rousing tale to be sure). But it was then that Gillette returned with the irons. The Commodore seized Sparrow by the elbow and dragged him forward to be chained. Elizabeth slipped free from her father's grip, heedless of his coat which she let fall from her shoulders. "Commodore, I really must protest."

Norrington appeared to ignore her, perhaps too embarrassed by the fact her light bodice and skirt were still wet and clung to her body in a way not befitting a proper lady. Elizabeth glided in front of Gillette and the pirate to face the Commodore. Her speech was genuinely felt, but she had wanted to plead clemency on the behalf of a pirate since she was about ten years old. "Pirate or not, this man saved my life."

Norrington regarded her carefully. "One good deed is not enough to redeem a man of a lifetime to wickedness."

This was a time-honored sentiment, one that Commodore Norrington took deeply to heart, Elizabeth knew. However, she was about to go on in her tirade anyway when Sparrow commented from behind her, "Though it seems enough to condemn him."

Norrington answered with a humorless, "Indeed."

Elizabeth was thinking of what next to say. She was most surprised when a chain was thrown across her throat and she was thrust against something hard and damp. She gasped out of reflex. From the shocked look on her father's face, she could suppose what had happened. The betrayal sat ill with her.

"No, don't shoot!" cried her father desperately.

Elizabeth could hardly swallow, her windpipe pressed against the hard, unyielding links of iron. She felt the cold, wet clothing belonging to Jack Sparrow against the bare skin of her neck and backs of her arms. Er—yes, her arms. Her arms were free. She wondered if . . .

"I knew you'd warm up t' me," Jack Sparrow sneered in her ear. She stiffened at the hotness of his breath. _Well, this is really the end, _she thought to herself, breathing fast. Death at the hands of a pirate.

"Commodore Norrington! My effects, please, and my hat." He pulled the chain tighter across her throat. Her hands reached around his wet trousers. She wondered if she punched hard enough, if she could knock out his kneecaps . . . The Commodore hesitated. She did not really expect James Norrington, scourge of piracy though he was, to allow anything to happen to her. All her life, she had thought that meeting a pirate would be rather exciting. Well, it was . . . simply not in the way she'd expected. Elizabeth breathed in silence, feeling for once in her life very grave fear. This was quickly overpowered by her overwhelming anger, disappointment that not only would this Caribbean legend _allow _himself to be captured, but that he had betrayed _her. _

"Commodore!" Sparrow roared. She found it curious that she could feel the vibrations of his throat against the back of her head. "Elizabeth," he said insinuatingly, touching her ear with his lips—how dare he!—and she flinched. "It _is _Elizabeth, isn't it?"

It hurt her throat, but she barked out, "It's Miss Swann!"

"Miss Swann," he rejoined, his voice soft in her ear, "if you would be so kind . . ."

_As to what? _she wondered with true horror. She looked at the Commodore in confusion. She was heartened by his expression of anger, frustration, and a touch of anxiety. "Come, come, dear, we don't have all day!" Sparrow crooned. Norrington held out the pile of Sparrow's effects, dropping it into Elizabeth's arms.

She had barely caught the bundle when Sparrow spun her around to face him. As he did, he snatched the pistol out of the bundle, holding it with one hand as he continued to hold her close with the manacles. She was not the type of young lady, she admitted in that moment, to be overly modest. But red circles of embarrassment—as well as anger—flared up in her cheeks. She scowled magnificently. "Now if you'll be _very _kind . . ."

Had the bundle of effects not remained in her arms between them, she was convinced she would have been pressed flush up against him. One of his arms, manacled, was draped over her right shoulder in the casually possessive manner she might expect such a ruffian to use with his wench, or whatever (clap-ridden) female he called his own. As it was, she found herself staring straight into his eyes. For a moment, she almost forgot herself and said aloud, "The broadside artists don't do you justice." From them, she had been led to understand that Jack Sparrow was quite ugly. In fact, she found that he had _not _had the pox (or at least there was no visual record of it), that he was _not _missing an eye, and that, aside from the gold teeth, he was actually rather good-looking.

She was so shocked with herself for succumbing to such an inane, base thought at _such _a time that her fury rose up in her body to such a degree she would have been glad to rip off Jack Sparrow's head with her bare hands rather than acknowledge she had ever found him anything but detestable. She picked up his three-cornered hat and slammed it on the crown of his head, then threw his pistol belt over his shoulder and cinched it tightly—let the devil suffocate for all she cared—to which he replied, "Easy on the goods, darling."

"You're despicable."

His eyes shone. He held the pistol vaguely at her temple. "Sticks'n stones, love. I saved your life, you saved mine. We're square." She was certainly going to protest this course of reasoning, but he quickly spun her back around again to face the crowd. Now he was holding the pistol—_no additional powder nor shot, you idiot, _she thought—and moving back slowly.

She was heartily annoyed that her wet clothes were sticking to his, making this awkward amount of contact even more distressing. She cringed as the warmth of his skin seeped through the thin material as he held her tight against his chest, though the chain around her throat had loosened—now he had one arm draped over her in a terribly impudent manner while still holding the pistol to her head. She was almost certain he had no intention of ever firing it at her. "Gentlemen, milady," he said, breathing again in her ear, "you will always remember this as the day you _almost _caught Captain Jack Sparrow!"

The chain almost knocked the bridge of her nose as he lifted it up, shoving her away from him as violently as if _she _were the one with remarkably foul breath. She slammed into the wall of soldiers, awkwardly landing in Commodore Norrington's arms. He at first reacted to her with surprise and clumsiness. Then he seized her firmly, and she allowed herself to be comforted by that firmness. But still she gazed behind her to watch Sparrow's escape, until he disappeared from view . . .

Elizabeth shot awake, staring with some confusion at what she thought was the ceiling. She quickly realized from the not-so-gentle rocking motion that she was at sea. The _Black Pearl. _Her quest to find Will. She groaned, wiping the cold sweat from her forehead. She didn't feel at all well. She was annoyed and disturbed that of all events, that was the one that her mind chose to dream about. She brushed her cheeks against the harsh canvas.

She heard the faint but unmistakable sound of four bells up on deck. Four bells. Eight o'clock, she thought, shocked to think she could have slept so long. She swung out of the hammock, a little light-headed. Once she sat up, she began to feel a little more capable of conducting herself. She tumbled into her boots and took a few halting steps toward the upper decks.

Night was descending on the ocean. Clouds were drifting by silently overhead, and the _Black Pearl _was making good time as gusts of wind filled all the masts. The quarter-deck was empty and dark and the lantern nearby swung mournfully. Elizabeth watched one of the crew, in silhouette, hoist up the rigging for the jibs. She turned toward the wheel, curious as to who was steering.

"Mrs. Turner."

She turned, a little shocked. Standing behind she recognized the shape of Jack Sparrow, though she could barely see him. He was outlined in shadow, and it was an unnerving effect. She gulped a little; he was standing there silently, almost menacingly. "Y-yes?"

"Will you accompany me to my cabin?" It was a question but certainly not a request.

"Of course," she said quietly. He did not acknowledge her response but instead turned sharply on his heel and headed down below for his cabin.

Elizabeth followed closely. She had to admit to being slightly apprehensive, as the last time she had stayed in the captain's quarters of the _Black Pearl, _she'd had the opportunity to stab a man in the dining cabin and then be chased about the ship by the undead. Though she'd since learned not to be so easily frightened, the memories were like those of a particularly troubling nightmare: they lingered like a ghost upon her pillow.

Now at least she was not clothed in an awkward gown, but in the mannish clothes borrowed from her husband. She felt slightly more self-contained, as if the difference between a skirt and trousers might mean she would be taken more seriously. She had guessed rightly that anything to do with Barbossa would disgust Jack as much as it disgusted her. Gone was the dark opulence; the day cabin was bare and serviceable, with many stubs of candles illuminating the gallery windows. Elizabeth saw the remains of a meal, hastily finished and small to begin with, through the open door of the dining cabin, the napkin and crumbs shifting nervously with every roll of the ship. She contrasted it with the enormous, orgiastic feast Barbossa had treated her to and felt slightly nauseous.

Jack took two large steps away from her and landed in a chair that looked suspiciously like it had been stolen from a post-captain. He sat at a small table littered with dozens of maps. There, too, were the tools of a navigator's trade: the sextant, the rulers, the small squat pencils

Jack noticed her staring and drew the map at the edge of the table closer to him. He looked at her and did not offer her a seat though the horsehair sofa—again, obviously stolen from a naval vessel—was unoccupied. She stood at attention like a midshipman. " 'Ad a pleasant rest, did you?"

His indolent tone made her defensive. He was insinuating laziness or something worse, and she did not like it. "Yes," she lied.

He rubbed his dark eyelid with the edge of his thumb, turning over the sextant in his hands idly. He peered up at her boredly. Suddenly he stomped to his feet, throwing himself across the table dramatically. "This is your last chance!"

She took a step backward. His eyes were wide and glaring at her, the whites contrasting tellingly with the black around his eyelids. His moustache was twitching over his lip; he was drumming his fingers on the table menacingly. Elizabeth cleared her throat. "My last chance for . . . what?"

Jack cocked his eyebrow at her, turning all at once very grave. "Piracy . . . is a 'anging offense, Elizabeth, as you well know. We're still close enough to Port Royal . . . "

Elizabeth looked down at the table, Jack's dirty, short, and frayed fingernails pointing to a craggy piece of earth on one of his maps. This was certainly true. She'd been very comforted in this knowledge when she'd been kidnapped by Barbossa. Later she realized hanging would do that man no evil. Then the practical policy she had called into question when Jack himself had been waiting with a noose around his neck. There really was no alternative. She looked up at him. "I have nothing left in Port Royal. This is my only option—surely you can understand

. . ."

He gazed at her in silence, then slumped loudly into his chair. He cleared his throat, staring pointedly at the maps. "Very well. Because you refuse my magnanimous offer, I will be forced to change our course for the voyage." Elizabeth stepped forward to look at the maps. He saw her and gathered them up hurriedly, rolling them up and shoving them below the table.

She sighed and forbore from chiding him for his childishness. "I hope you're not thinking of sailing the _Black Pearl _up the Thames, Captain Sparrow."

He looked at her darkly. "I would keep the questions an' complaints to an absolute minimum 'f I were you, considerin'—"

"I'm not an idiot, Jack, I'm not a lazy lady of fashion either," Elizabeth exclaimed loudly. "I've been living amongst ships since I was twelve years old! If you expect me to just—j-j-just crumple up in the face of danger—"

"Mrs. Turner," said the pirate quietly but with emphasis. Elizabeth shut her mouth. "Can you climb to the upper yards to repair the topsail?"

Elizabeth looked down. She was not a lazy lady, to be sure, but neither was she an able seaman. She clenched her fists. "I've never tried."

Jack stood up again, looking at her with obvious disdain. "Do you know how to wind a deadeye or steer the rudder in a heavy wind an' fog?" Elizabeth took a step forward angrily, remembering the anger from her dream which had been violent and bitter. Jack took a long, languorous step backward, his scarf following like an elegant train. He looked quite the impressive, implacable pirate captain, one hand outstretched as if daring her to protest her ignorance. She sighed heavily, glaring. "No," he said coldly, rolling the word scornfully. "You're little more than a green hand." He shook his head. "You would never make a member of my crew."

Elizabeth slammed her fist against the table, causing the sextant to jump and skitter across it. "Look, Jack," she snapped, her voice brittle, "I'll do whatever needs to be done."

"Oh good," said Jack cheerily, rubbing his hands together as if in front of a merry fire. "Start scrubbing, tarring, slushing and sweeping the decks at four bells tomorrow morning." Elizabeth's shoulders, so taut in anger, slumped in deep disappointment and frustration. These puerile tasks, these bits of humiliation, were used aboard naval vessels as forms of punishment. Jack flashed her a winning grin, mostly gold. Why was he being so unkind to her? she wondered. _Making it as difficult as he can, the scoundrel, _she thought. He couldn't still be angry about the rum runners' island? She narrowed her eyes to very unbecoming slits. He must really be annoyed to be forced, for once, to keep his word.

She placed both hands upon the table, leaning over it. "This is going to be a very . . . long . . . trip."

"Naturally," said Jack loftily, smiling and giving her an impudent wink. "Therefore to occupy your time, you will be making suitable things to wear." She stiffened. "Come, come, dear, you don't 'spect you can sashay into London in jack-boots and trousers, do ye?" She stared. "If this venture's to succeed—" his voice was low and intimate, and for the first time she felt as if she were not talking to a stranger, "—an' I 'spect it will—you must look the part of the 'appy, well-off young bride." He clapped a hand admiringly on her shoulder. She pulled away from the sickeningly innocuous heat of that gesture. He stepped back, leaning under the table. When again upright, he tossed a yard or so of damp pink calico at her. "I took the liberty of acquirin' this for you."

She glared. "You mean you stole it."

He held up a ringed finger in her face. "I received it . . . as a _gift. _I will of course take the cost out o' what you owe me at journey's end." He clinked his rings together appreciatively.

Not withstanding_ that_ vile assumption, Elizabeth examined the cloth in shock. "This isn't the kind of fabric a woman . . . of means would wear." He frowned. She thought about what he had perhaps meant by "gift." "Or did you not know that?" She smiled knowingly and threw it back at him. He caught it, now scowling and tossed it to the floor.

"Fine. When we reach Tortuga, you may select the fabric you desire." There was a forced calm to his voice, and she continued smiling, wondering if she had at last gained the upper hand.

"Tortuga?" she asked, at a loss, the word like dried coconut on her tongue. She had heard of and read of the place, and what she had heard of it from Will did not endear it to her.

"To refit and gather supplies for the voyage," said Jack succinctly.

Elizabeth nodded dutifully. "Well, I will need a sample of your clothes and will need to purchase fabric for you . . ." She trailed off, noticing he had turned away and was placing the confiscated maps in a drawer along the wall. "Jack, you will have to blend in as much as me if there is to be any measure of success." He ignored her. The _Black Pearl _rolled a little, and a bottle of what she could only assume was rum slid across the floor and landed against Jack's boot. He picked it up, looked at it, and said coldly, "Good evening to you, Mrs. Turner."

"But, wait, Jack, I have to teach you—"

He walked toward the door to his sleeping cabin, opened the door, and having walked through without so much as acknowledging her, slammed it shut.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter III.

"A ship is represented as possessing the attributes of more than one category of woman . . . one is the enchantress of whom a man can never be certain . . . All inspire romantic and consuming love . . ." --Silvia Rodgers, "Feminine Power at Sea"

Had Elizabeth any substantial knowledge of protocol on board a pirate ship, she would have realized that crew members barged into the captain's quarters on a regular basis and there was really nothing Jack could do to stop her, short of shooting her which could very well cause him considerable grief from the other crew members. Of course, she did not know this, being raised in Royal Navy discipline, and so stepped out of Jack Sparrow's office quarters quite bewildered. She wondered what could have made him so angry as to throw her out and decided wearily that it was simply his bad temper. She did not know him well enough to understand that, in his own brand of pride, she had embarrassed him—as if Jack Sparrow could be embarrassed. She had asked for some of his clothes, not knowing all he had was what he wore. But as I say, she did not know him well enough yet.

Elizabeth rested a moment, setting the harsh handle of her mop beside her on the deck. She flexed her hands, gazing into the distressingly dirty water of her bucket. It reeked of salt and bilge, and the fibers of her mop were stiff and vile. She shrugged, looking up at the main mast where a lithe sailor was standing on a rope to unfurl the highest yard. She shaded her damp, limp hat over her eyes and set back to work.

At least now she had a hat. She fingered the crinkled Caribe material with affection. After being forced out of Jack's presence, she had moped rather sullenly to the gun decks, only to find the men in their messes being served. She sidled up to a mess, the crewmen clustered around truncheons and mugs of grog. She waited, not knowing what else to do. Inconspicuously, one of the pirates had jostled his neighbor aside, leaving her just enough room to squeeze through. Flushed with appreciation, she had elbowed into the spot.

She was surprised. The Navy ration was for the most part composed of sea biscuits and salted pork with occasional niceties such as barley and butter. Here, too, were the sea biscuits by the dozens—but they were accompanied by heaps of plantain. Elizabeth found they made a nice addition to the general grueling quality of sea meals. When she received her mug of grog, one sip was enough to send her coughing. She used the rest to soften up the hard tack for careful consumption and was able to skim out all the weevils save one.

Bedtime began promptly after the evening meal, and Elizabeth found herself falling into a stupor as she climbed into her hammock. She declined to draw the curtain, looking at AnaMaria who ignored her. The first watch was called, and Elizabeth never closed her eyes once. There was no point in attempting to sleep. She listened to the huffs and snores mingled with soft, contented breathing. _The Black Pearl _swayed gently. She thought of Will.

The second watch was called at two, and Elizabeth noted Joshamee Gibbs lumbering out of his hammock as the sailors from the first watch tumbled in. Elizabeth lay thinking no longer and got to her feet, following Gibbs silently upon deck.

At first there were the insistent protestations, the superstitious exclamations. "Ye should be resting, Mrs. Turner!" the old tar had sputtered. " 'S not an easy task, bein' on watch!"

But in turn, it became increasingly easy for Mr. Gibbs to be worn down by Elizabeth's wily conversation. Gibbs loved to expound, loved it almost as much as whiskey. Soon he was telling Elizabeth about technical aspects of gun-running, of the mysterious lights that floated over the water when he was a mate on the_ Unforgiven, _dipping merrily into his flask and leaving most of the watching to Elizabeth. She listened intently, enjoying how it felt to be another sailor—another pirate—rather than Mrs. Elizabeth Turner, daughter of a governor, wife of a blacksmith.

"Speaking of strange lights, Mr. Gibbs," she had said, "Jack certainly burns the midnight oil, doesn't he?" She shrugged in the direction of the stern gallery, illuminated in the black night by a vibrant, trembling light.

Gibbs was taking yet another swig from his bottomless flask and choked as Elizabeth pointed out the light. She turned back to look at him, her eyebrows arching elegantly in surprise. Gibbs avoided her gaze guiltily. "All's I'm sayin' is . . ." he gazed up and down at the topsail, looking for what, Elizabeth could not say. ". . . that's one way of sayin' it."

This left Elizabeth even more baffled until she considered the covert way Gibbs was humming to himself. "You don't mean—"she stopped herself; _this _was really beyond her realm. Then again, she had noticed AnaMaria's hammock curiously empty when she'd gone up for the watch . . .

"What I mean's the truth, young missy," said Gibbs in his stern voice that brooked no disagreement, "an' I'm not expecting a married woman such as yerself to be shocked." He looked at her gravely, his dark, bushy eyebrows becoming one steel grey line on his furrowed forehead.

The two bells then rang, signifying the end of the watch—and this particular conversation. Elizabeth accompanied Gibbs down to the gun decks, where they parted company. Elizabeth discreetly cast her eyes about the dark hammocks and was nearly certain that AnaMaria's was unoccupied. She was unable to consider the situation further because she quickly fell into an undisturbed sleep until eight bells rang again, and she was called awake by the smell of cooking rice.

That had been a good ten hours previously, and Elizabeth had since enjoyed dinner on board the _Black Pearl. _She had discovered upon waking a bundled, dirty hat placed near her hammock, probably retrieved from the slopschest. She was overwhelmed with gratitude for the simple kindness of the gesture. The hat was serviceable and had become indispensable the long hot morning as she scrubbed the decks as Jack had instructed. Curious, she thought, she had seen no sign of Jack all day . . .

"See ye've found yerself a hat there, Mrs. Turner." Elizabeth looked up to the ruddy face of Gibbs coming her direction down the quarter deck.

She touched her hat, shifting it to a smart angle. "Aye aye, sir," she said, not a note of patronization in her voice.

"Ahoy!" shouted Moises from the cross tree between the sails. Elizabeth turned, peering up at him. She marveled at his lungs. "Coast off the larboard bow. Comin' up at some twenty miles!"

"Good. Adjust your course, AnaMaria, some forty degrees off starboard."

Elizabeth whipped around. Jack was standing imposingly on her quarter deck, having appeared more or less out of thin air. He had just given an order to AnaMaria at the helm, but he was peering rather interestedly at Elizabeth. She was flushed with the memory of the first time he had seen her, gazing down at her with that cryptic infinity in his eyes.

"Aye, Cap'n," said AnaMaria, giving the wheel a good turn. Jack continued to look at Elizabeth. Elizabeth stared back, glancing at Gibbs who was frozen in silence nearby.

At the point when Elizabeth felt she could no longer endure his unprovoked staring, Jack said loudly, "Mrs. Turner."

Elizabeth eyed AnaMaria, who was interested only in the wheel, out of real concentration or no. "Yes?" she replied, setting down her mop again.

"Now that I see that you are up t' the duties befittin' you—" she grimaced, "—I have another task for you."

She hazarded another glance at his inscrutable eyes. "What is that?"

Jack stepped aside with one broad, swooping clatter of his boots, revealing the small figure of a boy behind him. Elizabeth recognized him as the boy assistant to the harbormaster, a cherubic child of maybe nine years old. His black eyes peered into hers with fear. "This child," said Jack, "took't into his head t'join up with a buccaneer crew."

"He stowed away, you mean?" Elizabeth asked.

"That's correct, Mrs. Turner. Very good. 'Course, the _Black Pearl _'s no place for children. He'll be in your charge until we reach Tortuga."

Elizabeth gasped. "In m-my charge? Tortuga! You don't really mean to leave a boy in Tortuga, do you?"

Jack peered boredly at his fingernails and said, "Better t'let him stay here, then, Mrs. Turner? Or do ye enjoy the example you've set?"

She glared at him, curling her lip in anger. He glanced at her for a brief moment, then at the boy. He gave her the tiniest of bows, then turned and headed up the deck in his drink-inspired dance. Elizabeth looked at the boy, who raised a cautious eyebrow at her. She examined his faintly dirty white suit and hat. "What is your name?" she asked him, enunciating clearly.

He stared at her for awhile, and for a few brief, terrified seconds she wondered if he spoke English. He must, she thought. The harbormaster would have been certain that he did. At last the boy looked down at his bare feet, covered with the slime Elizabeth had been using to slush the decks. "Thomas, missus," he said timidly. "My name is Thomas."

She smiled at him. She was not yet a mother, nor had she been around many children. Her own mother . . . Well, there was no use dwelling on the past. She gazed tenderly at young Thomas and said, "My name is Elizabeth Turner."

"Yes, I know," said Thomas very dejectedly.

"You've seen me in town, I think."

"Yes, missus."

"Why did you come aboard? A pirate ship is no place for a child."

"Please, ma'am," said Thomas, throwing out a hand Elizabeth now could see was bleeding, "I just thought . . ."

When he didn't finish, Elizabeth seized his hand to take a better look. He pulled away half-heartedly. "Did he hurt you?" she thundered. "Did Jack hurt you?"

Thomas looked shocked. "No . . ."

Elizabeth swallowed, coloring in embarrassment. "Come along," she said, thrusting her mop back into its pail. "We'll go below decks to get your hand examined." _And something to drink,_ she thought, gazing at his dry, cracked lips, the skin flaking off as his tongue swam over them. As she and Thomas descended, they passed by AnaMaria at the helm. She shouted something at the boy in a language Elizabeth thought resembled some kind of pidgin Spanish. The boy responded quickly and quietly, and Elizabeth watched them with bewilderment. AnaMaria ignored her completely, and Elizabeth's pride was too great to allow her to ask what was said.

On the spar deck, Elizabeth bandaged Thomas' hand with some linen from the slopschest. She found that he had gained his injuries by fleeing the dock on a boat little more than a plank of wood. He would not say exactly what had prompted his escape but hinted, between mouthfuls of stale but not salty water, that it was due to the mistreatment of the harbormaster. She certainly did not intend to fall in love in eight years with her charge as she had done with Will, but she smiled to herself at the similarities. Perhaps that was why Jack had made her take the boy in the first place. _How would Jack know about that? _She shook her head. He probably assumed because she was a woman she would know everything about children. _Dear Mr. Sparrow, _she thought coldly, _how wrong you sometimes are. _

She put Thomas to sleep in her hammock with strict instructions that when he woke he was to report to her and assist her with holystoning the deck (he grimaced). As she climbed back up to the waist, her eyes slits against the Caribbean sun traversing the sky towards the west, she glanced at the helm for AnaMaria: she was now willing to sacrifice her pride to know what the Creole woman had said to the boy. But AnaMaria was no longer there; Angus Duncan, the perwigged old buffoon, was now watching the wheel under the supervision of Gibbs.

Elizabeth scanned the deck and then the rigging for AnaMaria. There was really no telling where to find her, Elizabeth had learned; not only was she often at the wheel with more skill than anyone but Jack, but she was also light and quick enough to be a top gallant sailor. Eventually Elizabeth found her. Hanging on the bowsprit, standing next to Jack at the prow of the _Pearl. _He was looking through a spyglass to what she could faintly make out as an island—well, really, a cauldron of volcanic rock--in the distance. AnaMaria stood, detached, holding her hat on her head against the ruffling wind. But when Jack beckoned her to look through the spyglass, Elizabeth noticed—with a suspicion she could not explain—that AnaMaria placed a dark hand across the small of his back. Completely unnecessary.

She considered what Gibbs had hinted. Could they really be—well—lovers? "Oh, it's no concern of yours!" she muttered to herself angrily. In response, Cotton's parrot squawked, seemingly at her, "Any port in a storm! Any port in a storm!" as it flew from the mizzen mast and almost knocked into the side of her head. As she threw up her hands to ward it off, Cotton strode past, smiling at her apologetically.

It was dark by the time they reached the crag of land Elizabeth learned was Tortuga. Most of the rock was black as the sea around them, but a small trickle of lights began on the coast and became a swirl of activity further in. As they neared the docks, the smell of tar, wet canvas, rotting fish, and some kind of spice tingled in Elizabeth's nostrils. She was among most of the crew as they assembled on deck to dock. Jack remained at the prow of the _Pearl _until they reached the dock, when he mysteriously slipped away.

Elizabeth'd had misgivings about Tortuga. The idea of a good deal of scoundrels drunk and marauding did not inspire her with confidence. She did not want to purchase the fabric for the gown Jack had ordered her to make. Thomas, she noticed, had had the good sense not to come above deck. She did not feel in the least that it would be a good idea to leave him in Tortuga. _Jack probably has some notion to put him the care of one of his . . . lady friends_, she thought with an anger and bitterness that hardly made sense to her.

As they docked, she watched with some surprise as the entirety of the crew lined up and, under the supervision of Gibbs, began to file down the gangplank toward the town. Cotton's parrot muttered something obscene as the mute tar descended toward the maze of taverns, brothels, and who knew what else. Gibbs himself had taken charge of the water tanks, to be refilled with fresh water (if there was any to be found on that rock).

Elizabeth removed her hat in anger and moved away from the bow. As she walked, she caught the end of a conversation she was certainly not meant to hear. She came into it as a female voice was cursing loudly in Spanish—AnaMaria and no other.

"Speak the King's _English, _will ye, woman?" It was Jack's voice, half exasperated and half teasing, if Elizabeth had learned anything about his intonation.

"You promised me a boat, Jack." Her voice was measured, cutting. "It's the next thing we'll do, you said."

Jack cleared his throat. "Certain things have, ah, intervened—"

"I did't expect to be back here so soon, back in this . . ." she sought her word angrily, " . . . shit hole!" Elizabeth winced at the colorful language.

Perhaps Jack did too, though Elizabeth was certain he'd said worse in his own time. "All ri', ye don't ha' t' go ashore."

"Neither do you!" Her voice took on a strange pleading note. "Why must you?"

Jack's voice was light and amused. "Why is it so imperative that I not go, AnaMa—?"

He was interrupted by a loud cracking sound. Elizabeth wasn't entirely certain what it was until Jack let out a tiny, defeated, "Ouch." She'd slapped him! Well, someone had to.

With that, the conversation ended abruptly, and AnaMaria came storming from the poop deck. Elizabeth dodged out of her way, watching her face of thunder with definite misgivings. Once she had disappeared below decks, Jack came stumbling into view as well, his characteristic weaving walk more pronounced than usual. On his way to the gangway, he noted Elizabeth standing with her arms folded resolutely across her chest. He looked at her with the same kind of wide-eyed confusion he had displayed when wrenching himself awake in the Governor's Mansion. She waited quite seriously for him to ask her, "Now, who are you exactly?"

"Mrs. Turner, not going ashore either?"

She inhaled deeply, finding herself being distracted by his fists which kept clenching and unclenching at his sides. How drunk _was _he?

"No," she said, fully expecting a rebuke. She had made up her mind that Thomas was not going to be left off like a prisoner in irons in any place Jack decided to dump him. She had made up her mind that if AnaMaria was going to stand up to Jack, so could she. She had made up her mind that she did not wish to be in Tortuga for—she got a queer sense of it as she shivered in the warm tropical air, gazing into Jack's seemingly pitless black eyes—that anything, _anything, _could happen there.

Jack lifted one dark eyebrow, shook his head slightly at her, then turned and muttered, "In tha' case . . ."

The shock that he was not arguing with her, that he was actually leaving her, overrode any rationality Elizabeth possessed at that moment. She strode after him. "Why are you going? Shouldn't the captain stay on board to . . . to . . . to make certain the ship doesn't get spirited away . . .?" She found herself gesticulating wildly, her voice high and fluty against the sound of subtle lapping waves.

Jack stopped and turned sharply. He stood very close to her, close enough that she could hear the jingling of his beads and baubles as they swung through his hair. "Look, 'Lizabeth," he said. "Everyone in Tortuga is either too drunk or too stupid t'steal any ship—much less the _Black Pearl."_

His grandiose manner inflamed her anger. "It's still very irresponsible behavior, Mr. Sparrow!"

He shut his eyes as if in pain. "Captain, _Captain!" _

"And another thing—"

"All ri'—" he interrupted in the kind of taut voice that told her he had near lost patience with her— "we'll leave it a' this. What is your preferred food o' choice?"

She stared at him. He couldn't be in earnest, could he? He smiled at her, the light of the swinging lantern above them reflecting on his teeth. His smile was jittery, cajoling, almost gentle. She sputtered without thinking, "Chocolate."

"Then choc'late you shall have in the morning!" he announced loudly, throwing up both arms at her in a salute.

"An' what shall you have, a headache?"

Elizabeth whipped around to see AnaMaria standing behind her, giving a devastatingly sullen look to Sparrow. Jack began traipsing down the gangway with a cheerful, "Per'aps!" When he reached the dock, he gave them a full bow, doffing his hat. "Good night. Per'aps you two can get t'know each other better . . ."

Gibbs, who had been supervising the departure of all the pirates, was about to make his own way into town. "Aw," he cut in, "'tis very bad luck to leave two women aboard—"

"Shut UP, Mr. Gibbs," Jack snarled, "thank you." Gibbs flicked his eyes to the ground in embarrassment, considered, and began walking off toward Tortuga proper. Jack followed, and by the time Elizabeth had lost sight of them, they were arm in arm. She sighed in disgust, turned, and swept up the deck.

After an hour of watching the lights on the island fade in and out, Elizabeth wondered if maybe she would not have been so unhappy in Tortuga. Surely she was capable of maintaining her senses in the most trying circumstances? She gazed over the railing with wistful regret, and it was such moments that her love for Will came to her in full. Memories of hundreds of separate incidents piled up in her mind, a film over her heart. The last time he had told her he loved her. The first time he had told her.

The boy Thomas emerged, somewhat sheepishly from the gun deck and came plodding along toward Elizabeth, dissipating her daydreams. "If you please, Mrs. Turner," said the boy, removing his hat with a woeful expression, "I'm hungry now . . ." He spoke to her, but she noticed his eyes trailing to AnaMaria, who was seated quite comfortably on the forecastle, gazing quietly at the town through a haze of tobacco smoke. While Elizabeth had been sitting motionless, AnaMaria's initiative had been to drag up something she called the _boucan _from below decks, a sort of grill. She had spent the hour most productively in grilling meat over it. The scent tingled in Elizabeth's nostrils; she realized that, amid her impassioned longings for Will, her own stomach was growling forcibly. Her mind raced—Jack had said they would be going ashore for provisions—even the make-shift pirate cook had left the galley. She realized there might not be anything aboard other than hard tack—and whatever AnaMaria was cooking.

She sighed, hoping this would suit the boy, and said, "We'll go to our mess and get some biscuits—"

AnaMaria hollered something in the Spanish pidgin to the boy. His melancholic expression changed immediately, and Elizabeth's turned sour. "What was that?" she asked in a thin voice to AnaMaria.

Thomas tugged at her sleeve. "Please, missus," he said, "but she says we can come share her meal." Elizabeth shook her head, tempted to repeat Jack's admonition to speak the King's English. Instead, she swallowed her pride and followed when AnaMaria beckoned them, the smoke of her pipe following her like a ghostly shadow. The meat was good, a far cry from Port Royal's roasted pheasant, but then it was ten times better than the salted pork on which she had been subsisting. She regarded their host warily, not forgetting that AnaMaria had little reason to befriend her at the moment. Still, she enjoyed her first true buccaneer meal.

Thomas must have been well-satisfied with it, as he fell into a companionable silence, licking his dark fingers and gulping the swigs of fresh water Elizabeth had found in a barrel. Between the fragrant, peppery smoke of the _boucan _and the harsh but perfumed smoke of AnaMaria's pipe, Elizabeth's eyes watered sufficiently that a mug of grog was almost palatable.

The night passed quickly, as the stars veered overhead. AnaMaria said little, only a few words of the pidgin language to the boy and monosyllabic requests and responses to Elizabeth. Soon enough, Thomas fell asleep right on deck, the sounds of the waves in his head, Elizabeth imagined.

How quiet and peaceful the Tortuga port seemed. Elizabeth was certain in the town, things were much rowdier. She studied the other woman, whose hat was rakishly tipped to one side, who lounged like a man beside the grill, her boots lithe and lanky in the moonlight. Elizabeth wondered if AnaMaria was thinking about Jack. She confessed she was curious as to what in Tortuga was enrapturing the good captain. Yes, so she could imagine what—and who—was enrapturing him. But if that were true, what did AnaMaria think about it? Tactfully, she began, "Tortuga must be a den of thieves."

AnaMaria looked up at her and slowly removed the pipe from between her teeth. She continued staring at Elizabeth as if she'd staid something grossly insulting. Elizabeth looked down at her hands, quirking her eyebrow in the knowledge that even after a long day's work in the hot sun, her hands were still an aristocrat's hands—white, ladylike. "Well, I—"

"Aye, you could say that," muttered AnaMaria, replacing her pipe and arching her dark eyebrows. She considered for a moment. "Certain 'ssumptions are made should a . . . woman show 'erself there." She gazed at Elizabeth, her dark eyes clear. There was no mistaking what she meant. Elizabeth began to nod. " 'S why I didn't much fancy going. I 'ave been many things in my time, but never _that." _

She tossed her pipe from her mouth and got to her feet. Above them, the wind licked and dusted the limp top gallant sails. Elizabeth was heartily ashamed, not only that AnaMaria felt the need to exonerate her virtue, but that she, Elizabeth, had felt cause to doubt it. AnaMaria was no whore—she was no shrinking thing, and she wore her own rough virtue proudly like a bandana, even on a ship of men. AnaMaria walked steadily the length of the ship toward the stern quarter, and Elizabeth, wishing to apologize, put down the last bones she had been peeling flesh from and got to her feet. It was difficult to do, because of the bruises and pinched blisters that had developed on her feet in the last day or two.

Limping, she recalled the conversation earlier, in which Jack had seemed determined to have AnaMaria in Tortuga with him. She sidestepped the apology and instead caught up with AnaMaria, saying, "Jack seemed well convinced you would be stopping off in Tortuga."

"Aye, well, Jack can convince himself of just about anything," was the bitter reply as AnaMaria bent to pull the line for the mizzen mast through the halyard with a sharp twist. The moonlight scudded across her face, and Elizabeth saw for the first time that her steady brow was creased, concerned. "Steals a woman's boat," she said. "What's rightfully hers. 'Twas her livelihood. And can convince 'imself there weren't no harm in't." Her gaze was cool and stung like daggers. Elizabeth remembered the sound of the slap she'd heard earlier. Surely she must have misunderstood Gibbs. Jack had stolen AnaMaria's boat—what woman would feel anything affectionate toward a man who had stolen from her?

Amid these reflections, Elizabeth had not noticed that AnaMaria had dashed to the door of Jack's cabin. As the Creole woman began tugging at the double doors, Elizabeth asked, "What are you doing?"

"Goin' to take a look at the maps, 'is all," said AnaMaria curtly, wrenching open one of the doors and taking a step inside. Elizabeth wasn't certain why—after all, Jack hadn't allowed her to see the maps either—but she felt vitally annoyed that AnaMaria wanted to see them, for whatever purpose. "Crew 'as a right to know where we're goin'."

Elizabeth couldn't argue with the logic of this, but was so incensed by the fact AnaMaria had begun tramping through the empty cabin, she forgot her surprise that Jack had told no one about London, and blurted, "You could just ask me."

AnaMaria ceased rifling through Jack's things and peered at Elizabeth. Her hands balled into fists and flew to her hips as she laughed disbelievingly. Elizabeth noticed for the first time the shiny flintlock pistol in her belt. "Oh, indeed?"

Elizabeth decided it was best to tell her the truth. She stood to her fullest height, which was taller than AnaMaria, and said without a trace of fear or remorse, "We're going to London." She played with the edge of the table, betraying her unease. "At least Jack and I." She glanced up at AnaMaria, whose arms were now crossed over her chest, her chin jutting out defensively. "We're . . . putting on a scam. Duping my uncle to give me my inheritance so I can send out a ship to search for Will." Her wedding ring weighed heavily against her palm.

AnaMaria took this revelation more level-headedly than Elizabeth expected. "And what did you promise him?" True, she was fingering her pistol and gazing at Elizabeth with eyes full of savageness and murder, but at least the question was asked.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. "A letter of marque."

AnaMaria smiled, if not sweetly. "No wonder." Elizabeth waited, expecting either a sarcastic laugh or a bullet through the heart. But she got neither, as AnaMaria stared at her, unblinking, her expression inscrutable. Finally Elizabeth had to look away from eyes that intense. It reminded her too much of Will's severest moments.

Instead her eyes fell to the maps Jack had left upon the table in his cabin. Since she had seen Jack adding to them, she had imagined them rough and not especially noteworthy in form and content. Her eyes bulged when she bent closer to examine them, heedless of AnaMaria. The map of the Jamaica coastline, the sketch of Port Royal, the detailed map of Tortuga and the sea lanes—she saw each curve measured out accurately, with notes in clear, plain English—as well as bits of Latin here or there. Not only was it neat and accurate, the sketches were also detailed and beautiful, mermaids with green and blue fin-tails flocking about the coast of Tortuga, grinning. "Where did Jack come by these maps?"

She saw AnaMaria had taken a seat in the horsehair sofa, nonchalant. "Probably made 'em hisself."

"But they're the work of a cartographer!" Elizabeth blurted. She cut herself off when she saw the cold look AnaMaria gave her. She knew that plain sailing was intricate work involving position, speed, direction and time and required mastery of algebra, geometry, trigonometry, geography, astronomy, meteorology, and physics. "He is many things, then, isn't he?" she said lamely.

"Aye, many things," said AnaMaria sharply, getting to her feet, "and a hell o' a lot of trouble." Elizabeth inhaled. She wasn't sure whether that was a complaint, warning, or threat.

She swallowed, uncertain what she wanted to say. As a child, she had imagined the freedom associated with being an outlaw of the coast, imagined how it might be to stomp up to a fellow pirate and _demand_ something. Instead the intricacies of unspoken etiquette—far-removed from the Code, she admitted—made her reluctant to demand of AnaMaria the puzzling question gnawing at her: was she Jack's lover?

"AnaMaria, I—"

"You wonder how I can let him go." AnaMaria anticipated her question brilliantly. The woman spoke honestly, and it was the speech of an equal—neither pitying nor harsh. "You wonder how I can watch him go there, into that place filled with . . . those women." Elizabeth opened her mouth in surprise. Was AnaMaria jealous? Was . . . was _Elizabeth? _"Jack is wanted," AnaMaria said. "He knows he's wanted, he thrives on it." Elizabeth nodded. "But he don't know what it is to be _needed. _You can't ever need Jack Sparrow." She stuffed her pistol back into her belt with finality. Elizabeth felt herself on level, if shaking ground, with the woman who had once tried to hand her to the enemy. "B'cause, Mrs. Turner, he will never need you."

The cold chill AnaMaria left in her wake made Elizabeth shiver. She peered at Jack's cabin, not for a moment thinking she could understand the enormity of what AnaMaria had just told her. She had no memory later of going above decks and falling asleep in the open air as she'd done only once before—she was painfully aware _that _night had been on the rum-runners' island. That was where she awoke the next morning. But the last thing she remembered were AnaMaria's words and seeing Jack's empty bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter IV.

"Conrad writes . . . how the love of a man for his ship 'is nearly as great as that of man for a woman' . . ."

–Silvia Rodgers, "Feminine Power at Sea"

Elizabeth was content to awake finally in her own bed, the covers soft and warm and the sweet breeze of her husband's breath stirring her hair . . .

When she opened her eyes, however, it was a tiny hand of ebony-colored skin that shook her shoulder gently, and a quiet voice that was not Will Turner's urged her, "Mrs. Turner . . . they coming back, ma'am!"

She had fallen asleep in the open, in the waist of the _Black Pearl, _sprawled lazily toward the stern with her legs tucked under her. Young Thomas, holding his white hat deferentially in his squirming hands, was standing a few feet away. She stumbled upright, tripping over her boots in her panic. The same sort of vulnerability that had assailed her when the two gruesome pirates had been peeping in on her came back again, and she struggled to manage herself. She looked wildly for AnaMaria—and found her, sitting on the lubbers' hole on the main mast. No longer smoking her pipe, she was staring down at the dock. Elizabeth shielded her eyes against the rising sun, having lost her hat, and discovered that the crew of the _Pearl _was trickling back from Tortuga. She watched them lurch and sway, each man expressing his own sort of half-drunken contentedness; from a distance, it looked like a whole army of motley Jacks, swaying to and fro peculiarly. Where _was _Jack? she wondered.

As if thinking the same thing, AnaMaria climbed down from the rigging and leapt down beside her. Elizabeth half-expected a look of animosity, but instead the second mate gave her a half-smile. Utter relief caused Elizabeth's shoulders to slacken in surprise. Thomas ran toward Elizabeth and ducked behind her, hiding.

Angus Duncan was the first aboard, blinking and sputtering with drink and addled brain; it was hard for Elizabeth to ever imagine him as the gentleman of fortune he purported to be. As he scurried up on deck, he saw AnaMaria and tipped an imaginary hat—he always wore a tatty periwig but never a hat—at her. "Good morning," he said cheerfully but slyly. He turned to Elizabeth and repeated the gesture. Moises, the sharp-eyed topgallant man, came up next, observed Duncan's conduct, and repeated it at both women, holding back a chuckle. Elizabeth's hands flew to her hips in confusion at the private joke the crew seemed to be sharing as they all scattered up the gangplank with similar greetings. AnaMaria was less subtle. After half the crew had greeted her with a lopsided grin--Peter Cotton who did not, of course, say a word, but instead pulled a cheeky smile—she extracted a mean-looking knife from her belt—Elizabeth had not seen that one yet—and snarled, "Next man 'a salute me gets gutted!"

There was a genuine menace to her voice that the men seemed to take seriously until Elizabeth impulsively added, "And I!" The crew broke into soft laughter, shuffling on deck. AnaMaria's look was bewildered and dismayed as she hid her knife in her belt once more.

Elizabeth shrugged. She turned back toward the dock and bespied Joshamee Gibbs struggling up the gangway, one burly arm outstretched as if to give him better balance. He was muttering softly, his flask still clutched mightily in one fist. Elizabeth forgot she had just vowed to gut her own crewmates. Her natural feeling betrayed her, and she stooped down the gangway, taking Gibbs' arm and steadying him. "Are you all right, Mr. Gibbs?"

She heard someone behind her say, "He's had too much flip, I'll wager." She could smell the evil blend of rum, beer, and brown sugar on his breath.

AnaMaria sprang from her spot, and Elizabeth hoped she might assist in dragging the sea dog up the slant. Instead she hissed in Elizabeth's ear—but loud enough for all to clearly hear—"He's a stinkin' drunk."

"And the firs' mate of this vessel," said a calm voice Elizabeth recognized as Jack's. "As such, you owe him your respect." Elizabeth glanced at him as his voice turned hard. She was fascinated to see him shouldering his fine gentleman's coat with a new swagger, wearing his old tattered hat like a badge, his eyes clear. She felt herself looking for some clue as to what she had spent the night doing—as if debauchery could be read like stains. She seized Gibbs' arm more tightly, giving him an enormous heave up the deck. He muttered something, but her eyes were on Jack and AnaMaria.

"Firs' mate," AnaMaria cried loudly, incredulously. "On a ship that should belong to _me!" _She raised her arm, and Elizabeth winced in preparation for a blow or worse.

But Jack said softly, "Calm yourself, madam." He leaned in. "Tonight we shall settle this to our own satisfaction, eh?" Elizabeth saw him raise an eyebrow as one gnarled, dirty hand floated to the small of the Creole woman's back—just as she had seen, vice versa, the day before. _How absurd that such a gesture should have an effect, _Elizabeth reflected, when AnaMaria stood down and huffed off toward the quarter-deck.

"Get up on those sails, ye scurvy mudnecks, and fill 'em! Weigh anchor and get us heaved to!" Jack's voice turned harsh, though the edge of amusement never left him. Elizabeth thought at the time it was an extremely unsound strategy, to get the crew almost too drunk to do their duties—"You there," Jack roared, "fall down or stand up, but make up your mind, savvy?"—but later reflected how shrewd it proved to be. Drunk, contented, placid, there weren't likely to offer much resistance to Jack's next choice of destination. Except AnaMaria, of course.

Elizabeth wiped off her hands, sending Gibbs off toward his post near the helm. Jack was on the forecastle, taking their present position by de'd reckoning. The bearing and distance were measured from Tortuga. She held out her hand to Thomas, who eyed Jack with suspicion, then scurried to her side. Jack noticed the movement, peered over his shoulder, and nodded to Elizabeth. "Mrs. Turner." Elizabeth felt Thomas squeeze her hand more tightly. "I thought I ha' made it impeccably clear t'ye that our friend was to be dropped off a' Tortuga."

Elizabeth threw her shoulders back defiantly, studying his dark eyes. _He really must be drunk,_ she thought. "Seeing as how I didn't _go _to Tortuga . . ."

He held up a ringed finger to his nose. "Tha's an entirely diff'rent matter." He gazed down at the boy beside Elizabeth, his large black eyes staring boldly up at the pirate. Jack cleared his throat, grabbing Elizabeth and pulling her aside. "It were all well an' dandy," he whispered harshly to her, "when you were shootin' a' cursed men who never died. But a real sea battle, 'Lizabeth?" She looked into his eyes for the first time, saw how grave his look was. "With cannons blowin' off limbs an' such?" She trembled. "D'ye really think a child should be seein' that?"

She pursed her lips, acknowledging what he said made some sense. For once. She felt an awareness of wonderment; she had assumed Jack just wanted the boy off the ship because he had no use for him. She saw now that this was not the case--Jack's concern for the boy touched and surprised Elizabeth. Still, she could not see him being any safer in Tortuga. With this spirit of defiance, she murmured archly, "Well, you must have been a child when you took up piracy

. . ." She waited for him to roar and clap the boy on the back, declaring a hearty "aye" and the rough-and-tumble life good for boys, puts hair on their chests or some such nonsense. She faltered when he said nothing. ". . . weren't you?"

Jack was no longer looking at her, but somewhere far off. His brow furrowed, and she saw a look of distance, small and sad, come into his eyes. "A child . . .?" he murmured. He swallowed. "Aye, I s'pose I was." 

Elizabeth squinted at him. She felt embarrassed, like she had intruded on something uniquely his, somewhere she was forbidden to tread. She found herself gazing downward to Jack's arm, his shirt falling away just enough to reveal the pirate brand. She studied it for a moment, recalling a desire she had first felt upon seeing him to touch it.

As quickly as he had sunken in his reverie, he snapped out of it. His eyes became bright once more, even comical, as he pulled back from Elizabeth to say loudly, "Well, the boy remains in your charge, Mrs. Turner." He had turned on his heel when he spun back around to face her, the baubles in his hair swinging and jingling. "Almost forgot." He reached, with secretive, pickpocket fingers, into the lining of his fine coat. He pulled out and handed to her a bale of dark grey poplin fabric. She looked at him in perplexity. He grinned, a rogue's smile, and fished out a long line of lace from the low pocket on his coat. The way he was smiling did not make her anxious to know where he had acquired it. "Tha' should do, I think," he said warmly, "for yer gown. 'S good fabric, fit fer a woman still in half-mourning." She stared at him. It was customary to continue to mourn one's parent for as long as a year, but she had forgone the tradition ever since Will had disappeared. Her guilt made her lip tremble. "So I am told," said Jack.

She opened her mouth to speak. "One more thing, or had ye put it past ol' Jack?" he said, the amusement in his voice telling her to be wary. Out of another pocket of his deep coat—_what was he, a conjurer?_ she asked herself tetchily—he produced half a coconut shell, hollowed out. He handed it to her. Inside were hundreds of small brown objects. "Choc'late!" Jack declared with a laugh in his voice. "Well, beans of the cocoa plant," he said, slightly abashed at her look. " 'S what you asked for," a petulant child. "S'posed to have rare . . . aphrodisiac properties." He leered. "In fact, the ol' king Montezuma for'ified 'imself with cocoa 'fore visiting his harem." She gasped, annoyed at how much he was enjoying this. "Save it for Will when you find him," he went on in a low voice, "should do him good." And he clapped her hard on the back and strode across the deck toward the wheel, where AnaMaria was staring at them fiercely.

The cocoa incident had embarrassed Elizabeth, so to avoid the crew's knowing jeers and catcalls, she had gone below decks, with Thomas firmly at hand. While the boy was engaged in rooting around for Elizabeth's hat, she tossed all the cocoa out through a porthole.

She did not see Jack again all that day, though she was certain he had come on deck once or twice. As her anger wore off, she felt a good deal of shame. The cocoa had probably cost good money, and though he was likely to take it out of her share of the profits later, she wished she had not disposed of it so meanly. What if she failed? What if they got to London and Jack was arrested and hanged? He was taking a risk—an incredible risk—and however scurrilous he proved in other respects, she still owed him for helping her.

That was one thing, then, she could at least remedy: she would make certain, if it killed her, that she could pass Jack Sparrow off as a law-abiding citizen, her husband. This was the attitude she took as she went quietly after supper at her mess to the cabin door of Captain Jack's quarters. Nervously she approached, almost convinced she was going to interrupt an amorous engagement that was really no business of hers. Forgetting herself again in the Navy code, she rapped politely on the door when she could have just walked in.

She half-expected low voices, a shrill giggle—though when she considered, she suspected AnaMaria absolutely incapable of a shrill giggle. Instead there was silence. A great deal of it. When the door swung open, it was only Jack—and the open end of his raised pistol. "Oh, s'you," he said in a voice marked with disappointment. He let the gun drop and as he refixed it in his pistol belt, he let the door swing open. He didn't invite her in, but instead took two heavy steps back into his quarters. "What is't you want?"

She cleared her throat, watching him stare distractedly at the maps again laid out on the table. "Thank you for the material," she said softly. "It will go a long way for authenticity's sake."

"Ah, good," said Jack, only half listening, his fingers drumming incessantly on top of the map. Mercifully he said nothing of the cocoa, sparing Elizabeth any awkward lies.

"Um, speaking of authenticity," Elizabeth whispered, nervously tracing the line on the door jamb, "I think you may have forgotten—"

"I didn't 'forget' anythin'," said Jack sharply, looking up from the maps. The dark kohl outlining his eyes suddenly made him look harsh, malevolent. " 'F ye're referring to the fact I must have clothes t' suit yours—" the sound of disgust was heavy in his voice "—then the fact that I ran across jus' such an ensemble should please you." The word 'please' was silken, almost accusatory. He jerked his head in the direction of the horsehair sofa. On it rested a small folded pile of clothing. She approached it slowly, as the cabin gave a groan and a lurch. She flicked her eyes uncertainly to Jack, who nodded her on. She unfolded the country gentleman's coat of brown fustian, the dark waistcoat of faded silk, and the matching trousers along with woolen stockings. Although she could not in the least imagine Jack wearing the clothes, they were exactly the image she wished to portray. She shook them out before refolding them, as a strange, barbarous scent seemed to emanate from the cloth.

"Well?"

"Excellent," she said, unsure if praise was what he sought. He grunted in response, returning to his maps. Elizabeth nonchalantly peeked over his shoulder to eye the maps. She finally commented, "The clothes will do nicely. But there is another thing . . ." He stood up straight, throwing down the pencil he had been grabbing in sooty hands, and peered at her. She had a feeling his patience was limited.

"Jack," she said, her voice soft but determined, "I'm willing to do whatever is needed to get the money from my uncle. I assume you feel the same." He nodded with sudden gravity, stroking the strands of his beard. "Then will you allow me, without feeling insulted, to teach you a few things you must know?"

He slouched, examined the ruined tufts of his fingernails. "Why would I be insulted, 'Lizabeth?" He appeared calm, but a reckless light in his eyes told her he was beginning to get angry.

"Oh, just a hunch," she said airily. "You always seem to rather . . . overreact." She widened her eyes, spread her feet outrageously, forced her hands into tight shapes as she waved them, doing a fair impression of him in his manic state. " 'Why's the rum gone!'"

"A legitimate question a' the time, I think!" he snarled, eyes tightening into crescents.

"Don't let's argue," Elizabeth pleaded. "Now, we shook on this scheme." She strode toward him, ignoring the protesting muscles in her legs, exhausted from lower yard work. "Shall we agree to do our utmost to ensure success?" She held out her hand. She thought of Norrington doing the same. She thought of the brand, the tattoo.

"This 'ad better be a _ruddy_ lot of gold," said Jack, with only a twinge of bitterness. He took her hand and shook it, though when Elizabeth tried to pull away, he seized her palm and brought it up to his face. She thought he was going to kiss her hand, a gallantry she thought beyond him until she remembered that was how he had first greeted her. "Wha's this?" he asked, staring at the inside of her delicate but no longer white hand.

She pulled away nervously. "What? This scar?" She traced the finger of her left hand down the diagonal red-and-white slash. "The treasure cave. Aztec gold. You have one too, you know."

Jack held up his own hand and looked into the palm. _The blood to be repaid . . . _He looked back at her. "I know. But why's yours all red an' swollen? Thought it should have healed up nice."

She shrugged. "I've been slushing the deck all day, or hadn't you noticed?" She expected something snappish. Instead he was awkwardly silent. And there—a look of pity, doubt. _That_ she couldn't stand! "Look, now," she said hastily. "Let's go over introductions."

"In'roductions?"

"In polite society. Start at the beginning."

"Naturally." His laugh was hurtful and derisive.

"Well, go on," she said tartly, her face contracting at his tone like a squishy apple. "Introduce us to my uncle." She indicated the gallery windows.

Jack squinted. "You need introducin' t' yer _uncle_?"

"It doesn't have to be him, just . . . anyone!" she snapped hastily.

Jack sighed, executed a clumsy but flamboyant bow to the windows. "May I present meself, Captain Jack Sparrow—"

"No, no! Do you want to get hung in chains from Hangman's Dock! You can't say you're _Jack Sparrow!" _

He appeared faintly insulted, wrinkling his nose up at her and complicating his moustache with a sneer. "Well, wha' _should _I say?"

"Aren't you pirates good at coming up with aliases?" Elizabeth asked breathlessly.

"Oh, aye. Ye want me t'introduce meself as Black Jack Flint?" He grinned outrageously, little beams of light shining on every tooth (particularly the gold ones).

Before Elizabeth could vociferate over this absurdity, her awed childishness said, "That was you? Black Jack Flint was . . . you?"

Jack struck a roguish pose, tucking his arms into his pistol belt with flair. "Oh, aye, and let me tell you—"

"No," dismissed Elizabeth, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter. Now my uncle knows that I married a man named Turner."

Jack glared at her sullenly. "Jack Turner then, I suppose?"

"I think John Turner more appropriate."

"Why's'at?"

"Well, John is your real name, isn't it?"

The lopsided grin told her otherwise. " 'Course, love."

She sighed heavily, not willing to let him know that the bits and pieces of what little valor she still found in piracy were crumbling. Disillusionment. "Well, go again."

Jack faced the windows. "May I present—"

"My wife, Mrs. Turner." He looked at her. "The woman is introduced first. It's the custom."

Jack muttered something obscene, then began again. "May I present me wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Turner. I am your humble servant, John Turner." He turned to her with open hands. "What now?"

She shrugged. "That was quite good." She considered. "But I'm not sure we should mention that you—my husband—is a blacksmith."

"Very good, because I did not want t'introduce meself that way." He fidgeted. " 'S embarrassing. Ev'ryone knows tha' blacksmiths are all . . ." He looked away, ostensibly uncomfortable, but really smiling behind his moustache. He made a quick pair of scissors with his fingers, jerked them upwards. "Snip!"

Elizabeth's look was darkly disapproving. Ignoring him, she said, "Something exotic so you won't be questioned. How about . . . a . . . tobacco planter . . . from—from Virginia?"

Jack clicked his tongue. "Well, I s'pose."

"Good, now—" she curtsied low, "I think you should show me your bow." He snickered. "What?"

"I 'ave t' say, ye look rather strange . . . curtsying in breeches." His eyes roved over her figure.

Eyes flashing, she snapped, "I'll be wearing a gown when we do this in earnest! Now _bow_!" Jack placed a wobbly boot forward and leaned down for a stiff bow. "Here," she said, spontaneously taking his right arm in her hand. "Tip your hat. Tuck your leg behind you—there—bow."

"I feel such a fool," he admitted.

She did not say what she thought—_you are a fool_—but instead cleared her throat. "You're doing well." She awkwardly dropped her hand from his forearm, pulled away. The finger with her wedding band got caught inadvertently in the heavy strands of his hair. Though he squawked loudly—hardly courageously—and whined like a mule, his hands were warm on hers as he slipped the ring away. As he worked to free her, she saw him gaze at the ring. It flew to the floor of the cabin with a _ping! _and as he bent to retrieve it, she found herself apologizing profusely, as she might to a stranger.

She saw him examine the ring carefully; a simple band of gold, it contrasted heavily with the gem-incrusted rings on his own hand. He half-smiled. "Your wedding ring . . ." He held it out to her, still looking at it in a strangely wistful way.

"Yes, thank you." She slipped it hurriedly back on her finger. When she looked up, Jack was still gazing at her. "What is it?" she asked, faintly defensive.

"Oh. Nothin'," he said. "I never thought t'ask about your wedding . . ."

She flushed, smoothing the ring down her finger. "What was there to ask?" she snapped, more rudely than she needed. He quieted, abashed.

"Well, I still ha' a great deal t'do—"

"—I should return to Thomas—"

"Good night, Mrs. Turner."

"Good night, Captain Sparrow."

The sky never seemed to change on the ocean, though the land seemed to: without being sure, Elizabeth fancied they were no longer in the Caribbean. She shrugged, giving her bucket a kick forward with the heel of her boot. She thought of the day the _Black Pearl _had met up in a fire fight with the _Interceptor, _eventually blasting her to smithereens. Wistfully she recalled herself by Will's side, issuing orders like some kind of hellcat. What had gotten into her at the time? The knowledge that if someone didn't act, they would all die? She hadn't done anything so brave or remarkable the last two weeks aboard the _Pearl, _and her lack of enterprise left her feeling fairly ashamed. Still, it wasn't as if she'd been a complete waste of time—she was making excellent progress with her gown, though she quite despised every moment spent sewing it. She was making less-than-excellent progress educating (he preferred the term "needlessly torturing") Jack on etiquette: one moment he would be remarkably enthusiastic about it, regarding it as a parlor game; the next he would be sullen, intimating none-too-subtly that she was wasting his time.

She heard a shout from the rigging and automatically raised her head. Using the wrinkled brim of her recovered hat to shield her eyes, she caught sight of the small shape of Thomas. "Thomas!" she cried shrilly, leaning on a nearby rope. "Thomas, you had better—"

"Oh, leave him, Mrs. Turner," came the broad, coaxing voice of Gibbs. Elizabeth dropped from the rope obediently. "He does very well in the riggin'," said Gibbs with a smile.

"Better than me, you mean," she said sheepishly, pushing back a strand of her brown hair nonchalantly. She had nearly fallen from the mizzen mast when instructed to run a line and add a second sail in the doldrums; ever since, she'd felt a little queasy about running the rigging and had noticed the crew hadn't pressed it on her.

"Don' dwell on it, lass," said Gibbs dismissively. Elizabeth peered at his leathered face, a patchwork of sunburn and tan over years in the sun and salt, rough but smiling. She admired his kindness to her, which he had showed from the first day she'd stepped on board, just as she admired his pigheaded strength in peace and war. His drinking, not so much.

"Tell me, then, Mr. Gibbs," she said seriously, "what good have I ever been to the _Black Pearl?" _

Gibbs raised a brow, creasing his forehead until it looked like vellum stretched over sand. "Well, the work you done for Cotton." It was true; in the days since her near fall from the mast, Elizabeth had taken a more-or-less apprenticeship to Peter Cotton, the ship's makeshift carpenter and sometimes cooper. She learned very quickly that bits of mast and parts of decks were extremely temperamental and always falling apart. The white hands she had so disparaged were quickly becoming a motley hue of red and brown from splinters and sunburn. She smiled faintly at Gibbs' praise. "An' . . . what about the boy?" He jutted his chin toward Thomas, now climbing carefully down the starboard side of the rigging. "Ye're teaching him to read, aren't you?"

"An' you think that a good thing, do you, t' educate people like us?" This last from AnaMaria, slouching underneath her hat as she dragged the mounted fourteen-pound cannon across deck to be repaired. Elizabeth saw her eyes, and they were full of malice, glinting, but not for her.

Ruffled, Gibbs tucked away his flask. "People like you?"

AnaMaria dropped the thick cord on the cannon and swaggered up to Gibbs, accidentally knocking Cotton's parrot from his shoulder. The parrot squawked in outrage and went to dirty up the forecastle wheel. "Runaway slaves," she said with a bright coldness that chilled Elizabeth. "Thought you were a respectable man, Mr. Gibbs. 'S not lettin' slaves learn to read—"

"Ye be daft, woman!" Gibbs muttered, clearly uncomfortable. Across the ship, Crimp called AnaMaria. She gave Gibbs one last hostile glare and heaved to with the cannon. Once she had gone, and Elizabeth was preparing to go below decks, Gibbs nudged her shoulder and said covertly, "Been in a foul mood all day." He scratched his whiskers, giving Elizabeth a significant look. "Can't imagine why, can you?"

The careful insinuation left Elizabeth blank. She played with the brim of her hat and said, "What do you—?"

"Blast it, and never you mind," Gibbs reproached, shaking a meaty finger at her. She saw him look in the direction of the wheel as a cold spray of wind flew up on deck. She glanced back up at the rigging and found that Thomas was no longer there. _Where's that boy gone to now?_ she thought. Since the morning of the return from Tortuga, she had seen him regain some of his spirits, become lively and talkative. There was no longer any cause to keep watch over him, as he was quickly becoming adept at a pirate's life. He had learned the ropes, as they said, and frequently ran errands for all the crew. Even Jack, Elizabeth noticed, had quit treating him with indifference. She had taken over the task of teaching the boy to read—from an old, battered hymnal and a volume of Ben Jonson she had found, apparently abandoned, in her mess's sea chest. "A smart boy," Jack had remarked in one of his more magnanimous moments.

"Oh, Miss Eliz—I mean, Mrs. Turner," Gibbs blustered on, "there was some matter I wanted to speak t'ye about." _Did someone need a chair made from scraps of wood?_ she wondered. It had become her job to report requests for carpentry to Cotton. Of course, he never acknowledged her with more than a smile. "There's been rumors."

Not exactly what she had expected. "Oh?"

Gibbs glanced at her nervously, then removed to the starboard railing and beckoned her to follow. He spat over the edge, excused himself and looked at her boldly. "Well, you know as well's I that I'm a common-sense type, not to be mixin' in things'd don't concern me . . ." Elizabeth looked away and rolled her eyes extravagantly. ". . . but there been rumors, circulatin' 'mongst the crew."

Elizabeth found her imagination not quite equal to the task of speculating what rumors would surface aboard a pirate ship. Perhaps speculation that Jack might have finally gone completely mad. Perhaps a mutiny to wring Cotton's parrot's neck once and for all. Heaven forbid that Jack and AnaMaria should be implicated as _lovers—_she had since, quietly but completely, decided that they could be nothing but. Even though there was little affection passed between them and she had not yet caught the two in Jack's cabin. The knowledge amused her—was Gibbs about to inform her that AnaMaria might soon be expecting a junior Sparrow? Elizabeth caught her absurd laugh just in time. Primly, she said, "What about?"

However amusing Elizabeth found the situation, Gibbs was all gravity. " 'S not like Jack not to give at least a hint o' where we be going." His eyes were wary, confused. "Hasn't said a thing about where the _Pearl _is headed. Me geography ain't as good as his, but I 'spect we've been swimmin' around the sea—" he licked his finger and held it up to test the wind, "—in circles since you got aboard!"

Elizabeth looked away guiltily. She wasn't certain she could lie about such a vital grain of knowledge. "Well, I—"

Gibbs leaned in, and she saw concern written in the wrinkles of his jowls. "Crew is gettin' the least bit anxious, you understan'. There's been naught but that Portuguese frigate—_La Margarida _or whatever she were. Not a great take in herself." A few miles out of Tortuga, the _Pearl _had come upon a small bark. Deciding quickly she was a merchant vessel with little defense, they'd shadowed her before driving her into a nearby reef and running her aground. The flustered, inexperienced crew gave up after a brief, nearly bloodless fire fight and surrendered their cargo. Unfortunately, it was as Gibbs said—a poor take. There was little in hard cash to be found, and aside from the captain's silver candelabra collection, little besides cane and tobacco. Jack had left the survivors on the reef, offering the vessel to AnaMaria as a prize and her first command. Curiously she had refused, saying she deserved a much bigger prize and would hold out until then. Jack had left the ship in the care of the slaves aboard, with their oath that they would spread the fame and dread of the _Black Pearl _wherever they went. The Portuguese crew were blindfolded and tied together in concentric circles, making escape difficult but conceivable. "A ship will pass by in a day or two," said Jack mildly. Elizabeth was of the opinion that this was rather cruel, but conceded when pressed by Jack that it was preferable to killing them. For her part, she had been told to keep out of sight—one woman on board a pirate ship was rare enough; two would surely give them away.

" 'S all for near two weeks," Gibbs went on. "Doesn't seem quite right says I." He looked at Elizabeth expectedly.

Her voice trilled in nervousness. "You wouldn't expect me to know anything . . ."

Gibbs leaned on the railing. "Well, in fact I thought you might, seeing as how you've become

. . . very friendly with the captain, as of late."

Elizabeth could not remember a time when her jaw dropped farther. "With the captain!" she gasped, white in the face. "With Jack Sparrow! You actually think—" She couldn't believe that Gibbs would actually imagine there was anything—_anything_—between her and Jack. She had been speaking to him as often as every night, it was true, but—"Mr. Gibbs—" her voice was stern "—you cannot mean to imply—"

"Logical, in't?" He shrugged shamelessly. "Your husband gone, thought dead, somewhere 'cross the ocean; 'twould make sense, a young woman seeking solace in Jack Sparrow's arms—"

Elizabeth was so scandalized she could almost not speak. Rage struck her tongue to the roof of her mouth in awkward silence. She could not imagine the gall, first to accuse her of faithlessness to Will—Will, whom she loved so obdurately, for whom she was risking everything—second, to implicate her with _him—_

_Well, what's so wrong with Jack Sparrow? _asked a tiny voice in her head.

He's vulgar, and unkind, conceited, rough, and there's nothing about him that I would find attractive enough to break my wedding vows—

"Solace in his arms! In Jack's arms!" she sputtered indignantly.

"What's this I'm hearing about me arms?" It was Jack's voice of course, approaching from directly behind her, and when she turned, absolutely glazed in shock, she expected the worst—that he'd heard everything. She said nothing for a long moment, instead gazing at him blankly. The so-discussed arms were visible, he having stripped himself of his coat and folded his shirt-sleeves up to the elbow—she supposed to assist in filling up the leak that had sprung in the hold. He was concealing a smile behind his moustache, but that was not usually the face he wore when teasing her. She decided he had not heard anything but the last.

"A-A-Actually," she said, thinking quickly, "there _was_ something I was wondering about your arms." Jack leaned forward, looking slightly baffled. She stared at the brand on his wrist, the curious, intricate indenture in his skin. "Why do you have that brand on your wrist rather than your forehead? The broadsides I read said the East India Trading Company branded pirates on the forehead."

Gibbs cleared his throat forcefully and inched out of the way. Jack brought his forearm up, began unfolding his sleeve and then seemed to think the better of it. She wasn't quite sure if he was exactly embarrassed by the mark, but her words had a clear impact. "Don' believe everything you read i' books, Mrs. Turner." He gave a gruff sound of annoyance and turned from her, his shoulders hunched and his fingers wisping in the air like he was getting ready to pounce. Clearly, said his mannerisms, _I am a busy man and you are not worth my time. _

This attitude, in conjunction with the dreadful slander Gibbs had told her, boiled her blood. She followed after Jack with her own bristling self-importance as he tracked over to the main mast. "Perhaps they didn't want to ruin the perfect glory of your ruggedly handsome face," she theorized tartly.

Jack looked at her over his shoulder just long enough to say humorlessly, "I reckon that be it." He flipped his compass off his belt and held it up squinting cock-eyedly at it. Elizabeth considered replying, then was about to stalk away in exasperated disgust when she heard a loud clink and scrape.

Startled, she automatically bent to retrieve the object which had fallen. It was Jack's compass, and she picked it up with one hand; as she was preparing to hand it back to him, her eye fell on a small slab of white that had presumably fallen when the compass did. Jack snatched the compass from her outstretched hand while she sank to one knee to pick up the object.

It was smooth and slippery to the touch, glistening, oddly fascinating. She turned it over in her hand, the piece of ivory broad and flat, about the width of a kernel of corn. Her first thought was that the miniaturist who had painted this portrait was extraordinarily talented. But such a thought was superseded when she realized she was looking at the most beautiful human being she had ever seen. She wasn't certain what caught her eye first: the wafting, thickly curled hair the color of burgundy wine, freely about the woman's shoulders, or her enormous blue eyes, deep-set into skin as pale as powder and slightly tilted under thick eyelashes. Perhaps it was the perfect smile that somehow held a hint of roguishness, independence. She was dressed in the manner Elizabeth's mother might have in her courting years: a fontage headdress of lace set above her unruly curls, the bodice of her gown a sharp triangle. "What is this?" she asked.

"Funny, AnaMaria asked the same question." The comment failed to draw any laughter. "Give it t' me."

Elizabeth continued to stare, wiping the grime and dirt from the miniature. Her fingers rubbed over the one-word inscription: Ysabel. She murmured dazedly, "But Jack, who is she?"

Jack was rigid, the tendons in his bare arms standing out. "Give it t' me!"

"Don't you trust me?" Elizabeth asked quietly, giving one last look at Ysabel, whoever she was, and handing the miniature back to his dark, dirty palm. He snatched it away roughly.

She looked up at him, his black-rimmed eyes. He shared her look, nervously rabbiting until, dropping under his hat, he muttered, "She was my mother, all ri'?"

His mother? She had to admit to some surprise, though a quick assessing look at Jack confirmed this—the high, defined cheekbones were the same, as well as the way the eyes tilted slightly. Ysabel Sparrow? she thought, vaguely amused. Jack was no pauper as far as looks were concerned, under all that grime and filth, but there was no comparing _him _with _her. _"What was she like?"

A sound of impatience, anger. "Damn it, 'Lizabeth," he muttered between bared teeth, "intent on robbing yerself o' all pretense? Intent t' know that I'm a bastard wit' no knowledge o' my father?"

Elizabeth winced, a tiny tic, but replied sharply, "I didn't ask about your father, I asked about _her." _

"She was a handmaiden t' the Princess of Castile, 'f you must know. Sailed to England wi' her illegitimate child—yours truly—an' died in childbirth." She quirked an eyebrow at him, prepared to expound—no—wait—

"Is that true?"

He grinned enormously. " 'Course it is." In a feathery imitation of her own voice, " 'Don't you trust me?'"

She sighed angrily, and he, tipping his hat, began to walk off. "She was . . . beautiful, wasn't she?"

Jack turned, heaving a sigh. His eyes took on a sad distant look that was fragile, heart-rending. "Yes . . ." he faltered. "She was." Then his look hardened, and he was once again the flamboyant, careless Jack Sparrow who cared naught for anybody but himself. "But she's dead." The finality of his tone repulsed her.

"My mother died when I was three," she said crisply.

"Ah, well, 'tis a wonderful world for us orphans," he said darkly and turned away from her.

She could have continued the conversation, even as he traversed the waist and came up on the larboard side. But his coldness was like a punch to her chest, knocking out her breath and will. She stared at him, angry that whenever the slightest remnant of the real Jack—sad, sweet, incisive, even profound—surfaced, it was quashed by his bravado self.

"Mrs. Turner." Thomas had climbed down and was skidding along the deck toward her. She tried to smile at him, but what Jack had said about orphans prevented her. "You should try it up there, some time, missus," said Thomas with breathless abandon. "See the 'ole world up there, you might."

"Yes, I know, Tho—"

"Cap'n Sparrow! You might want to see this!" It was Crimp on the jib, squinting with one eye and pointing with one limp wrist. Thomas climbed up on the deck railing and was heading for the rigging. "Thomas, wait—" She was lost in the din as all those aboard the ship raced toward the bow with murmured exclamations and confused words. Elizabeth had no choice but to follow.

Jack had climbed on the prow and was holding his spyglass blithely. "Steady, AnaMaria!" he barked. "Keep 'er steady!"

"Aye, sir, I'm trying!" she shouted back from the helm. A breathful of fog clouded up the path of the _Pearl, _rising suddenly where no fog had been before. Elizabeth shivered, not so much from the cold but in the suddenness.

Her hair whipped about her neck as the _Pearl _groaned. "Take those sails down! Be quick about't!" Gibbs' voice rose above the fog. Men scurried up the rigging to furl up the foremast, slowing them down.

Though she could at first see nothing at all, Elizabeth felt the chill of dread—just as she had felt it the first time she had seen the skull and crossbones and the ship with black sails. As if echoing her sentiment, Cotton's parrot hooted mournfully, "Dead men tell no tales," and floated listlessly to the top gallant.

Peering forward, she saw the faint outline of a mast. A sail, a spar, a shroud. "Turn her hard a' port, AnaMaria!" Jack yelled. "Turn 'er around!"

The _Pearl _swerved quickly but fluidly, and the entire crew watched as the shape of a massive vessel appeared out of the fog. A collective gasp. Elizabeth heard murmurs all around her. ". . . a galleon, must be . . ."

". . . look, the flag of _la Maritima Royal d'Espagna . . ."_

". . . where's the crew? Why'd they let us approach?"

"Do you see it, ma'am?" Thomas's voice was tinny above Elizabeth. She looked up, shivering, and said thinly, "Yes, I do."

Suddenly Gibbs was beside her with the forbidding look she had seen him give nine years previously. "Spanish treasure ship," he said, though she was not certain if he was speaking to her, or thinking aloud. "Pretty prey for pirates. Eerie, though, this fog. Reminds me of—"

"Just what I was thinking," concurred Elizabeth.

Gibbs eyed her warily. He crossed to Jack. "Should we make the ready? Fighting sails? Load the cannons?" Jack continued looking through the glass, silent. "Captain?"

"Not yet, Mr. Gibbs," said Jack coolly. He folded the spyglass and put it away. "She appears to be adrift. No crew to be seen."

"Could be a trick. Somethin' to lure ships in, seekin' rescue."

Jack seemed to consider soberly. "Could be indeed, Mr. Gibbs. But," and he smiled, too cheerfully even for Jack, "nothing ventured . . ." Gibbs shrugged uneasily. "AnaMaria!"

"Aye?"

"Get Cotton to hold the wheel. Gibbs, Crimp, AnaMaria, Marty, you're wi' me. Launch a boat." He stared hard at Gibbs. "We'll land, secure the rudder 'f she is genuinely adrift, set up grappling hooks so she won' float away. Moises, keep watch. First sign o' trouble, tell the rest of them—" his eyes passed over Elizabeth "—to load the cannons and board."

Orders were issued promptly and correctly, but with an overwhelming sense of sluggishness. Elizabeth watched, half-sick with worry, half-fascinated, as the landing party loaded pistols, cutlasses, muskets, and powder and made ready to drop the rowboat.

"Me, sir—where d'you want me?" It was Thomas, saluting Jack as the captain prepared to depart. Elizabeth ran forward to pull Thomas away.

"You stay here," said Jack brusquely with such a degree of raw concern it chilled Elizabeth. His eyes met hers. She wanted to warn him, to tell him what a bad feeling she had, but the words stuck. She looked at his eyes and could think of nothing but his mother. "You, too, Elizabeth."

She watched as the boat was lowered down the side. Gibbs and Crimp at the oars, Jack standing in the front of the boat. _You fool, _she thought, wondering why she was so sick at heart. While they were gone, Elizabeth kept a keen eye on the galleon. It was a far cry from the blazing merchant ship from which Will had been rescued, but still the feeling nagged at her. Perhaps they were, as others were murmuring around her, simply a stranded ship, an easy plunder but no threat. The longer they waited, the more grateful she was for Thomas' hand in hers. The fog swelled, giving tantalizing view of the hull of the monster—Elizabeth had never seen a ship so huge—room for 100 guns had it been a warship. But there was the sole cry from Moises, "They're aboard—throw the grapples!" to explain what they saw. Throwing the hooks was like pitching in the dark, but once the two ships were hubbed together, Elizabeth felt at least a little safer.

Then silence followed for the longest time. Not complete silence of course, as the _Pearl _groaned and scudded through the water, the wind teasing her sails. But for anyone expecting the sound of battle, waiting on the alert to raise the black flag of no surrender, the silence was unnerving.

It wasn't soon enough when Moises shouted a loud but unsure, "They comin' back over. Hoist back the grapples!" A barrel-chested crewman heaved back the hooks with an ill-disguised look of bewilderment. A strange whooshing sound, unearthly, came from the galleon as it slid away and disappeared completely. The familiar splashing sounds of a rowboat heartened everyone. The boat was hoisted on deck, and Jack and the others returned, carrying one large chest among them. Their faces looked grey and ill at ease, even Jack's.

"Take this down to the hold," he ordered listlessly. "We'll divide 't up later." His glance swept over Elizabeth darkly. "AnaMaria, would you—"

"Aye aye, sir," she replied, her voice tight and fearful. Back at the helm, she steered the ship around.

Thomas squeezed Elizabeth's hand and gave her a broad questioning look. She nodded at him. "Well?" Her question hung in the air; Gibbs looked at her woefully and turned away.

"Well, _what?" _Jack snapped turning on her with an angry, exasperated look.

She stood up tall, rigid, refusing to allow Jack's grim look to intimidate her. "Well, would anyone tell me what he saw?" None of the crew would meet her eyes, looking guiltily away, except Jack who glared obdurately and said nothing.

Finally Gibbs swallowed and said brokenly, "Was a Spanish galleon. By the name of _Concepción, _from the look of her—"

"Mr. Gibbs—"

"The crew," Gibbs went on, pale.

"They were dead." AnaMaria's voice from the helm, cold and clear. "They were all dead."

Jack's shoulders slumped, and suddenly he looked very small. "Looked like they were attacked," said Gibbs. "Quick fight, ambush maybe." He coughed. "Not one left alive." He looked significantly at Thomas.

Elizabeth sighed. She felt herself gripping the railing for support. "And?"

Gibbs looked forward, knotting his sealy grey brows together in something approaching sorrow. "And nothin' was taken that we could see!"

Elizabeth didn't understand. "Nothing?"

"Someone come along just interested in killing," broke in AnaMaria, her own voice tinged with fear and distrust. "Who's in these waters like that?" She looked at Jack. "Even the cursed pirates—they never . . ."

Elizabeth's hand became a fist. "They were dead, and you just left them there?" she addressed Jack.

He was unruffled, unconcerned. "Had we done anything else, someone might've figured out we passed this way." A significant look.

Elizabeth trembled, ripped through with anger, surprise, and fear. Some part of her knew she shouldn't blame Jack, but he was an easy target. Her voice pierced and shivered at the same time, a physical abstraction of rage. "You left them to rot, not even a Christian burial—"

"You forget yerself here, Mrs. Turner. Seems _I _am the captain, not you—"

"—and then you had the . . . effrontery to take their things!" Murmuring voices surrounded her. Elizabeth's arms shook much more than when she had held the gun to Jack's head.

"Be quiet!" Jack roared. There was wrath in his voice such as she had never heard before, and she stepped back as if he had struck her. When he looked at her, the rage in his eyes was so potent—so unlike Jack—Barbossa's eyes had assaulted her thus on her first night aboard the _Black Pearl. _"We are . . . pirates," said Jack significantly. "Understan'? Bloody pirates!" He jabbed two fingers at the top of his chest where the open collar of his shirt came closed so violently she turned away. "This is what we do. I don' know what _you _are pretendin' t' be, other than a little girl, afraid an' helpless . . ."

He didn't finish, because for the first time she had stepped aboard, Elizabeth fled.

"It's lookin' badly, all right." These were Gibbs' words. He was rubbing together his two meaty hands, ostensibly to keep warm, but it seemed almost like a supplication as Elizabeth peered at him. The light below in the gun decks was sparse, provided only by a few candles sparingly lit. She wasn't certain to what Gibbs was referring—the storm that was pursuing the _Pearl _from the West, or the meeting the crew had called.

"How badly?" she asked seriously. She cast a careful eye at Thomas, asleep in his hammock strung beside hers.

Gibbs cleared his throat and shrugged unevenly, wiping the sweat on the top of his lip on his sleeve. Immediately after her departure, the crew had demanded a meeting—and a vote. Such a vote was called when pirates were unhappy with their chosen leader. In this case, Jack. "Some berate 'im, as you did, for leaving those poor Spaniards." He made some sort of oblique signal, a bastardization of the sign of the cross, perhaps. "Some think we should have taken the 'hole o' the treasure." He laughed mirthlessly. "But most everyone agrees our take 'as been much too small o' late. Since 'e hasn't given up the idea o' where we be travelin' next . . ."

Elizabeth looked down in dismay. They had invited her, even encouraged her, to come to their meeting. She lived aboard the ship, so she had some say. But she had refused. She was so angry and distraught with Jack she was afraid anything she said might be used against him. And she did not want that, no matter how much he had disappointed her. "What does AnaMaria say?" Would she attempt for captain-elect herself? Or would she remain true to her lover?

Gibbs snorted with a half-smile. "She says very little."

Elizabeth grunted in understanding. The ship swayed. She looked up appealingly. "Mr. Gibbs, you don't think that . . ." she swallowed. "You don't think they'll try to maroon him again, do you?"

Gibbs was tempted to laugh but, seeing the guilty, pained expression on Elizabeth's face, forbore. "No, I don't think so." He gave her shoulder a light pat. "They're just afeared, young missy."

"Do pirates get afraid?"

"Oh, aye. Although if I do say so meself, your concern is—"

"Mr. Gibbs!"

Gibbs nodded, shutting up. "Then I'll be off. See what's come o' castin' the vote."

"You didn't vote?"

"Already made clear me position," said the old salt with a touch of pride. "I'm with Jack all the way." Elizabeth managed a faint smile. She hadn't meant to speak so irately up on deck—she knew what Jack had done had been right by the Code, he'd done what was right by him. He'd had reason to be angry with her for questioning him—he _was _the captain—for stirring up vague whispers of mutiny. But she could find little to excuse the cruel, glittering look he had given her. She hadn't deserved that.

She slept badly. She was eager to go up on watch at the two bells, eager to hear from someone the result of the vote. As she climbed up on deck, AnaMaria brushed past her. The two women stared at each other for a long moment. The Creole woman's face was expressionless. "Well, the leavin' for London—it'll be soon," she said at last, her voice brittle.

"What do you mean?"

"The crew voted overwhelmingly for 'im." A faint smile. "The old fool, I'm glad for him." Her smile faded. "Though I s'pose ye'll be takin' him away from me soon."

Elizabeth flushed. "AnaMaria, you won't lose him to me—"

"He's asked t' speak wi' you." And she slipped below. Elizabeth stood, one foot in the passageway, one on the slippery deck. _No, I won't, _she thought. _I'm relieved for him, but . . . _she shivered, remembering his look. She waited out her watch in silence and returned to bed immediately afterwards.

When she took her post the next day for holystoning the deck, having spent her morning listlessly working on the gown, Jack was waiting for her. His walk was less flamboyant than usual, his black-laden eyes less bright. Still, there was a blatant stubbornness imbedded in every sinew that she could not ignore. "I asked t'speak t'you last night," he said blandly.

Elizabeth looked over her shoulder nervously. "I . . . I had the watch."

"Well, 'f you please, now's as good a time as any." He beckoned her into his cabin. Warily she adjusted her eyes to the darkness. This day his quarters had a spare, empty feeling. She noticed the brown fustian coat and other accoutrements folded again on the sofa, her father's trunk sliding slightly with the ship. The maps were no longer on the table. Instead, only the stub of a burnt-out candle and Jack's compass, still not pointing north. Jack cleared his throat and said, "I wanted t'know, Mrs. Turner, whether you speak any French?"

Elizabeth's eyes shot up at the question. It was so completely unexpected that the clouds in her thoughts broke up suddenly. "Yes," she ventured. Jack leaned forwardly expectantly. "_Oui," _she amended. He tossed a beringed hand toward her, encouraging. She flushed in annoyance and said curtly, "_Je suis désolée que mon capitain est un sot qui joue les jeux bêtes._"

Jack fell back into his chair, laughing, revealing his golden teeth. She bristled. "Tha' wasn't very nice, 'Lizabeth," he said, clearly amused with her. She stared at him. She hadn't realized—"Per'aps I should've told ye that though I cannot speak French, I can understan' i' fairly well." He beamed at her. She did not share his look. He looked down, his smile fading, and he played with the end of his moustache quietly. "I . . . regret . . ." He coughed, he fidgeted. He couldn't look up at her, instead staring at the quivering needle of his compass. "I regret . . ." he began again. She waited. This was clearly something difficult for him to say. He finally looked like he was about to be sick. "I regret what I said to you yesterday. It was . . . wrong o' me." He looked up at her briefly, long enough for her to see he was sincere. She noticed his words were crisp and without accent.

She raised an eyebrow, considering she was perhaps the first person to receive a genuine apology from Jack Sparrow. A marvel. An honor. She accepted it with diplomacy. "Yes, I see. But what does my speaking French pertain to anything?"

"It pertains, Elizabeth," he said clearly, scratching under his bandana, "because we shall be meeting—rendez-vous-ing, 'f you prefer—" he gave her that rogue's smile, "with a French schooner which will take us t' our destination."

Her shock was considerable. She squinted at him—how long had he been planning this? "London? On a French schooner?" He sensed her rising inflection and began to speak. "You know best, I suppose," she said, dismissing her objection with a wave of her hand, though she remained unconvinced. "Have you told—?"

"—the crew? No, I 'aven't." He grinned with reckless abandon that reminded her—of all things—of Barbossa's monkey. "Gibbs an' AnaMaria," he said quickly, in response to her look, "but it seems _she _already knew."

It was Elizabeth's turn to be embarrassed. "Oh," she breathed. Jack's eyebrow wiggled; he knew she had told. "Yes. Well—"

"In any case, they'll have charge o' me ship while I'm away." He patted the wall to his cabin. "Better take damned good care o' her, too."

Elizabeth felt compelled to ask, though she knew it furthered her cause not at all: "But Jack . . . you're leaving your ship in the hands of those who might have taken it from you. Aren't you

. . ." she lowered her eyes ". . . aren't you afraid you'll lose her?"

"Lose her?" he scoffed. "I've lost her before—and found her again." He gave the _Pearl _another loving pat. "The _Pearl_''s mine. As long as I live." Elizabeth sighed, amazed at his nonchalance—and at his courage. She thought of what he was giving up—to do her a favor. She hoped to God her inheritance was as grand as she believed it—she was almost willing to give the entirety to Jack for his sacrifice. "This French schooner—"

"_La Reine Charlotte,_" he said, with a deplorable accent.

"—when are we meeting her, exactly?"

Jack played idly with his compass, counted on his fingers, and then brightly announced, "Tomorrow, 'f I've calcula'ed right."

Elizabeth stumbled. "Tomorrow! You can't be serious!"

"I'm afraid I am," he said testily. "You do have that dress finished, don't you?"

She glared. "Barely. Just!"

"Ah, well, good." She shook her head sadly. This wasn't going to work. They weren't ready. She had just begun teaching him how to sit at table! She opened her mouth to protest, to beg him to reconsider. But love of Will overwhelmed and destroyed her doubt—for better or worse. She inhaled sharply and vowed not to complain. Thinking of Will, she couldn't help but ask, "What will Thomas do when we leave?" The thought of leaving him came as an awful surprise, too sudden for her to realize the consequences.

"What d'ye mean? He's done well for 'imself on this ship. He'll manage. He's not your child, after all—"

"Yes, I know!" Elizabeth snapped, sucking back her anger—he'd hit a weak spot. Jack threw up his arms, chagrined. She stared at her hands for a long time, waiting for her eyes to stop watering, and reflected with a bitten-back ironic laugh that now that her hands were tan, white, dainty things were what was needed. Her blurred vision did give her one advantage, however—squinting at Jack, she could almost imagine him in the country gentleman's clothes, almost imagine Jack behaving correctly, passing him off for Will. When she wiped her tears away, however, there were two enormous obstacles.

As he continued to stare at his maps, she clicked open the lock on her father's chest. Rummaging about, she picked up a small, round mirror. As she cleaned it off with the edge of her shirt, she saw Jack nonchalantly peering at her out of the corner of his black-laced eye. "There is one thing you should know about London," she said.

"Wha's that?"

"Well, take a look into this." She handed him the glass.

"It 'as been some time since I looked in a mirror," Jack admitted, taking the glass with a simper.

"Yes, I was sure of that," she muttered. She fished secretively in the chest for a small pair of scissors that she slipped into her pocket as she stood up to face him. Jack peered into the mirror, grimacing and contorting his face in reflection.

"Londoners," Elizabeth said, "are very critical of appearance. If anyone looks strange or outlandish . . ." She waited for him to find himself in this group. ". . . well, it's sometimes been known for Londoners to stone people out of town."

He ignored her warning, instead using his tongue to clean his gold teeth contentedly. "Ah, yes, well, s'good I'm not outlandish looking." He glanced at her, a frown. "Though you, you may ha' a problem." Elizabeth rolled her eyes. He was still grinning at his uneven reflection, stroking the beaded strands of his beard with a roguish wandering hand. "Wha' a handsome devil I really am—I had quite forgotten!"

"Stop making faces and do be serious!" Elizabeth snapped, whirling around angrily and grabbing for the little glass. "You—need—to—look like everyone else!"

"Tha' will do, Mrs. Turner!" Jack replied with an imperious tone that only made him appear more silly as he grappled for the mirror. Elizabeth relented and picked up the scissors. Jack cradled the mirror close to his chest, looking up at Elizabeth—and the scissors, especially.

"There is nothing . . . to be done about . . . your teeth." She tried not to grimace, but the slightest curl of her lips manifested, and Jack gave her a withering look.

"An' if there were, Mrs. Turner," he said sternly, shaking a long finger in her face, "an' if there were, I would do nothin' to destroy this . . . pleasin' visage." He smiled very broadly, revealing every single one of his gold teeth.

Elizabeth ignored him, turning the scissors so the pewter handles faced Jack's outstretched hand. "But you cannot expect anyone in London to take you for an . . . honest husband of the Governor of Port Royal's daughter with . . ." she gave a little shrug, "your hair."

Jack glowered up at her, shaking his head firmly. Elizabeth leaned down and pleaded, "Jack, we discussed this. We agreed that the deception must be complete if I am to ever see my uncle and for you to ever see any of the gold." Jack began to chew noisily on one of his battered fingernails. "_Please_," Elizabeth pleaded. "We agreed—we agreed to do whatever it takes. Now, look at me. I've worked on that horrid gown for weeks." He ignored her. "Please, Jack! You've already consented to be parted from your ship—why not your hair?" She hesitantly touched his forearm with her fingers. "Hair does grow back, you know . . ."

Jack glanced at her and continued to make a feast of his fingernail. Elizabeth sighed deeply, taking a breath for what would certainly be a long tirade. "Mrs. Turner," he interrupted, "have you ever cut your hair?" He looked up at her briefly as she considered.

"Well . . . no," she said lamely.

"Hmm," Sparrow replied, rubbing his chin meditatively. "Well, neither have I." He gave one last tug with his teeth to his fingernail. "All ri'," he said softly, with distant eyes not looking at her.

Elizabeth, transported by relief, quickly offered him the scissors. "No," he said, refusing them. "You do it."

"I?" Elizabeth replied in shock. He wasn't looking at her. He wasn't even examining his hands in mock-nonchalance. "Are you . . . are you certain?"

"Blast it, woman, do it or don't!" he snapped. She saw his hands seize the arms of the chair, the veins rising from the skin of his hands.

"All right, Jack . . . I'll do it," she replied, her hand trembling a little. She placed the scissors back in her pocket as Jack looked away from her with a brooding expression. She reached gingerly around his head to the knot of his head scarf. The loop held against her labors to pull it apart, but finally it came undone in her shaking hands. Slowly she drew it, incrusted with sea salt, away from Jack's black hair. It came away none too easily, with a few rough strands of hair, and another stream of salt and sand tumbled out of his hair and onto his eyelashes. "Sorry," Elizabeth muttered. He blinked and did not respond.

His forehead was understandably paler where the scarf had shielded his eyesight from the sun. On that pale skin she saw the remains of what looked like another scar. She decided not to question him about it, though in its ugly way it receded back into his hairline and scalp. The scarf unwound, salt and sand dumped into her fingers and upon the floor, she stood behind him and daintily began to untie the fat braid that ended at the base of his neck. His hair came out of the braid wild and scraggly. She came to one of the smaller braids, twisted with beads, which she could not untie from its cord. Jack cleared his throat and said nothing, and feeling a little nervous, Elizabeth sought the scissors from her pocket. Quivering slightly, she gave the braid a snip. The braid came out, and she let it drop to the floor. She moved on. The sea spine she untied from his hair, careful not to prick herself with it though Jack issued no warning. Every little trinket and braid she could not untie met the same fate, to be unwrapped or cut out entirely, and ended in a small pile on the floor. The _Black Pearl _lurched.

The half-crazed look of Jack Sparrow toned down gradually but never, even as she bent to clip off the small golden coin that usually hung over the front of his scarf, entirely disappeared. She was reminded, of course, of a certain Biblical shearing, and the thought of divesting Jack of his symbolic freedom and manhood was enough to stay her hands on several occasions. But mercilessly she went on, sobered and feeling strange, though he seemed to pay her no heed. The scissors slipped from her hand, she was trembling from a nervousness she should not be feeling. Jack looked up, a blank and curious look in his eyes. "Done, then?" It was more a breath than an actual question, so quiet, in a voice so dull.

Her eyes met his. His mouth was open, the tip of his pink tongue at the edge of his lips. The scissors discarded in her left hand, her right hand, without knowing it, was pressed gently against his chin. Unconsciously, her fingers played with the two little braids that sprouted from his chin. She twisted them between forefinger and thumb over and over, counting the white and red beads. Tugging gently, she released the braids from between the beads, combing out the strands of salt-stained beard in her fingers.

His eyes flicked over to her fingers, half accusatory, half curious. She knew she should stop, stop her fingers kneading the braids of his beard, stop her fingers from crawling up his face, against the tan skin and rough stubble . . . Why was it, she wondered, that she had never looked closely enough at the beads? They were rather pretty. She hadn't noticed, either, a tiny dimpled scar—the size of a pumpernickel seed—below his lower lip. When she touched it, she found it smooth. His look turned from confused and vaguely condemnatory to roguish. When she at last gained the strength to pull away, he stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and grazed her hand.

She was more shocked than angry, and so pretended that nothing had happened. Shakily, she said, "Sorry. I'm nearly done here." Shivering and unable to forget the soft, velvety touch of his tongue on her skin, she lined up each unruly curl and cut it squarely until his hair was an even, uniform length just below his chin. She avoided his eyes, and eventually he stopped looking at her. Had she seen him, she would have realized that the lascivious look had given way to one of sadness.

The process had taken a good deal of time, she realized, slumping a bit in fatigue. When she finished, she came back to face him. He was looking down at the little hairs scattered about the floor in disarray. "I've finished," Elizabeth announced, both bravely and timidly.

The door to Jack's cabin was banged resoundingly, and just as Jack had jumped up in response, the door was wrenched open—and in came AnaMaria. "Jack—" she began. She stared.

"Well, what is it?" Jack snapped, ignoring the newly shorn fall of his hair. AnaMaria gaped, looking back to Elizabeth and the scissors, instruments of pillage, still in hand.

"We're . . . nearing the meetin' place . . . sir," AnaMaria answered, straightening up as she would in the presence of her captain, though there was a certain look of horror on her face.

"Now, I expect you t' break the news to the crew. You will ha' command of the _Pearl, _under Gibbs, until I return," he barked. "See that you keep a good eye 'n the crew."

AnaMaria nodded sharply. Her dark eyes blazed. "Aye aye, sir." She glanced at Elizabeth, and her look hardened to one of surprise and sadness. She looked at Jack, who was again examining his fingernails. Caught between two young women was a circumstance in which he frequently found himself, but there was a certain quiet awkwardness that made both of them loathe to approach him. Finally AnaMaria took a deep breath and took two steps toward him. "I don' pretend to question your orders, Cap'n," she said, "but whatever it be you've got in your 'ead—"

"Tha's enough, AnaMaria!" said Jack sternly, though he looked at the young Creole woman with a kind, almost tender lilt. "I'll 'ave no insubordination on me ship, savvy? Not after wha' was last. 'F you have any grievance wi' me--"

"Don't talk t' me so coldly," she whispered, ignoring Elizabeth. "Not when you're about to leave . . . and who knows when—"

"AnaMaria, don'." His voice commanded.

Elizabeth, at a loss, turned silently away and carefully gathered up Jack's hair trinkets and put them into her pocket, using the little rush broom in the corner to sweep up the remains of Jack's hair littering the cabin. The _Black Pearl _gave a groan and heaved off bodily to one side. Elizabeth staggered a little. When she looked up, brushing her dry hands of the strands of Jack's hair that clung to them, Jack and AnaMaria were gazing at one another in silence. It certainly was no starry-eyed sweethearts' gaze, but it was a dark, nonetheless intimate look.

"Excuse me," Elizabeth muttered. "I suppose you'll be wanting these," she said, offering the poisoned spine, the baubles and beads.

To her chagrin, Jack didn't even look at her. "Toss 'em overboard, Mrs. Turner," he said coldly. "Since you found it so imperative to disconnect 'em, might as well destroy 'em, eh?"

Elizabeth's flush of anger deepened. Jack was nonchalantly brushing the little hairs that clung to his neck and shoulders while AnaMaria continued to look on with the closest to a starry-eyed look Elizabeth could possibly imagine the young woman to have. "Mrs. Turner, I will expect you a' dawn," Jack said, fingering his pistol belt absently. "In costume, you understan', an' ready?" He did not look at her, and she could only peer over his high shoulders and be met with the strange look AnaMaria had for her. It was regret but also resignation and Elizabeth wondered for the first time if they were more than just lovers—if AnaMaria felt more strongly for him than she was letting on. Elizabeth longed to tell her that she had no intention of taking the other woman's place; far from it! She was already married!

"Yes, Captain Sparrow," Elizabeth replied. She turned to leave, her boot heels clicking loudly on the cabin floor. As she opened the door, the ship heaved again. She looked behind her. Jack Sparrow was watching through the gallery windows as the ship swung, and AnaMaria had come up behind him and was plying his newly short hair into a neat queue. Elizabeth turned away, a strange feeling flooding her senses. It shamed her, and yet she couldn't deny it. The tenderness between the two, the understanding—for the first time, Elizabeth admitted she was jealous.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks for continuing to read. I am sorry I had to cut Jack's hair in the last chapter, but didn't you find that part sexy? That was the idea, anyway. Three chapters left, though they are long.

Chapter V.

"_Life is infernally complex." –Rafael Sabatini, Captain Blood _

Elizabeth was very accustomed to sleeping little, though her time aboard the _Black Pearl _had usually made her earn her seven hours of sleep per night. But the night before she and Jack left for England, she lay completely awake, blinking only when the film of sleeplessness burned her eyes. She listened to the moaning of the _Pearl, _the distinct sound of her as she tracked waters foreign to her. In the middle of the Atlantic—perhaps along the coast of North Africa, perhaps as far north as Corsica. She had to marvel at Jack—though he stubbornly refused to show the maps to anyone, he had managed to avoid any sea traffic—not only the British Royal Navy, but any of the others. Not for the first time, she wondered about his compass—wondered about the miniature of his mother . . .

Thomas stirred in his sleep, and Elizabeth gazed at him tenderly. There had been a time early in her marriage when she hadn't been sure whether she particularly relished the responsibility of having children of her own. At least Thomas had taught her that much; she smiled, gazing at the serenity of his sleeping brow, his wide, plaintive lips. Jack had had to remind her that Thomas was not her child—she was almost glad that he had. He was right—Thomas would do well anywhere. Now that she had taught him to read, perhaps more avenues might open up to him. Yes, of course it was common knowledge—as AnaMaria had pointed out—that educating slaves was a dangerous business. But hang common knowledge! Freedom . . .

She got up long before the four bells, using the pink curtain around her hammock to dress. She wore the dark grey poplin of her gown, conservatively cut, but the sensible thing for a woman of her station and situation to wear. She unbound her hair to a vague upsweep from the strict plait it had been in—one couldn't be expected to dress grandly aboard ship, could one?—and donned her stays and underthings (kept safe in her father's chest) for the first time in a fortnight. She felt lanky and awkward, in a gown; she couldn't have known the tan and color wrought from the voyage had increased her beauty tenfold.

Her feet pinched and tugged in the high-heeled brass-buckled shoes when she was used to boots. She dragged her father's chest with her as silently as she could manage, and was ill-prepared for the surprise of the recent rain on deck when she stepped up. A fine mist still clung to the air, and the _Pearl _seemed to be sailing in a cloud. An eerie silence, much like the one accompanying the _Concepción, _hung around. Elizabeth looked toward the bowsprit, then toward the helm, as she could see no one on watch.

She didn't even hear him come up behind her. His hand was over her mouth, suffocating any breath or cry she might have made. The only thing that calmed her, that let her know it was Jack who'd come up behind her and clapped his hand over her mouth, was that she recognized the hand. A perpetual film of dirt seemed to cover it, making every line and wrinkle darker. He released her, and she spun to see him, just to make sure. She had to look more carefully than she would have otherwise: she did not at first recognize him. His dark hair, newly shorn to the chin, was drawn up in a neat solitaire, and he was no longer dressed in his motley outfit. The clean shirt, fustian coat, waistcoat, _stockings_, looked better on him than she would have ever guessed. He was cool, self-contained, and seemed to hold all the promise in the world. Truth be told, she was rather proud of him. But for his battered three-cocked hat and the black outlines around his eyes, he looked the part. John Turner. Her husband.

"Come on, 'Lizabeth, I've already loaded the boat," he said in a harsh whisper. He took her hand without asking and began to lead her to the rowboat tethered to the hull.

"Are we just going to slip away silently like this, like . . .?"

"Like thieves, you were about t' say?"

"I was not."

"You were."

"I—Oh, come off it, Jack, we'll never get on if we're already arguing like this!"

He drew in close to her, and she missed the sounds of his jewelry. "Then let's not make a fuss. Do what I say." She sighed and handed him the chest. He tossed it into the boat. He jumped, landed unsteadily on the wood, and beckoned her down. She jumped as well, falling quite painfully into his arms. She shoved him off quickly and took her seat at the stern of the boat. Her cheeks were immediately damp with the mist surrounding them. Jack pulled away the rope from the _Pearl _and, giving the hull a steady but fond kick, they were off.

She couldn't help a mournful look at the ship. Jack saw her as he wound up the line and said, "Oh, don' fret, love. Gibbs an' AnaMaria'll stick t' the Code, do things right." All the same, she saw him blow the ship a kiss before he waved goodbye. "Gi' me tha' chest," he said. Elizabeth hesitantly obeyed, opening it when prompted.

"What are you doing?" she asked, watching him dump three cutlasses, two pistols, shot and powder, into the chest.

"Fer safe-keepin'," he said. She noticed he was wearing his pistol belt—complete with pistol, cutlass, and compass—over his civilian clothes as well. Then he stared at Elizabeth.

"I'm not rowing," she snapped. He sat down with a melodramatic grimace. "After all, I _am _the lady."

"How could I forget?" Jack replied and launched into a spirited row, backward into the fog.

Elizabeth looked back toward the _Pearl, _seeing the gallery of the stern disappear into shimmery white. "Don' look back," said Jack seriously. " 'S bad luck."

Elizabeth hunched her shoulders and stared dead ahead, thinking she might scream if one more man told her something was bad luck. Jack had been rowing for some time when Elizabeth remarked, curious, "You are certain the schooner is to meet us?"

Jack nodded bluffly. "Should be comin' up on 'em any moment."

"Do they know you're Captain Jack Sparrow?"

It seemed to give him satisfaction to hear his "title" pronounced. "Blazes, no. Communica'ed via" (she couldn't believe he had used the word "via") "courier buoys—Cap'n Jack told Cap'n François tha' he'd be sendin' an emissary by the name o' Greery—'s me, darling," he clarified, "t' see that Cap'n Jack's precious cargo—" he tapped the wooden chest "—got safely to London. Ha' its disadvantages of course," he mused. "Seemed the best course, though."

"And who, exactly, did you say I was?" Elizabeth narrowed her deep brown eyes.

"Don' recall exactly," said Jack evasively.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "And these Frenchmen—are they pirates?"

"Smugglers—so aye, fer all intents an' purposes. Any more questions?"

"Yes, a few. What did you promise them in return?"

He grinned, rooting through the pockets of his coat. He cupped what he found in both hands and nodded Elizabeth over. In his hands was a large stone, polished but uncut. It was almost clear, but had a vague yellowish tint to it. "Cut glass?" she ventured weakly.

"I am surprised a' your lack o' imagination," said Jack, tsking as he began to put the stone away. "A diamond? For a governor's daughter, per'aps?" She shook her head. "On second thought, mi' you be interested in holding it fer me? Keep it safe, eh?" She held out her hand for the stone and drew out the small bag in which she kept her money between the crevices of her breasts. Jack's eyes widened dramatically, more awed than leering. "Smart girl," he said.

She shivered as she saw the low hull of the schooner rise up out of the mist. They were only about a hundred yards away, plowing through the calm waters steadily, like a murky ghost. Jack turned and saw the ship. "Ri' on time," he remarked drily. Elizabeth shivered again, though she really couldn't say why. They crossed the stern and, as if to confirm her suspicions, it had La Reine Charlotte written in peeling paint. The canvas wasn't fully drawn and appeared limp and sluggish in the mist. Elizabeth saw the faint shapes of plumed shadows on deck. She shivered again.

"Now, my dear little wife," said Jack, managing a smile but sounding jittery nonetheless, "Cap'n François is o' course, French. He'll be speakin', then, in French. I'll listen t' wha' he has t' say, an' I wan' you to translate back fer me." Elizabeth grimaced. "Are you up t' tha', Mrs. Turner?"

She cleared her throat. "Do you trust these men?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"I trust 'em t' take us t' London in return fer a diamond," he said evasively.

She nodded. "All right. I'll do my best."

Jack leaned forward. "Wha' matters in this life—an' I gave this bit o' advice t' young William—is wha' a man can do—an' what a man can't do. In your case, a woman." She raised her eyebrows at him, nervously eyeing the man aboard the schooner who was looking down at them through a spyglass. "Can you translate fer me or can you not?"

She looked for the hint that he might be teasing her again. She could not find it: his deep eyes were mirthless, almost kind. She inhaled sharply. "I can and will do this for you, Jack."

"Very good," he said.

An officer of the _Reine Charlotte—_Elizabeth assumed it was an officer because of the crisp, pure pronunciation—hailed them down and asked them to identify themselves.

"Tell 'em I'm Sparrow's man Greery an' would remind M'sieur o' his agreement."

Elizabeth breathed deeply, then said in her clearest, loudest voice, "_Il est le seigneur du Capitain Sparrow. . ." _

Once the message had been relayed, the officer conferred with another man in a language Elizabeth could not understand. Then the officer asked her who she was. Before Jack could absorb the information, he told them she was his "indispensable translator." At that the Frenchman and his associate conferred once again. _"Allez-y!" _he called, and one of his men threw down a rope ladder.

"Ladies first," said Jack, ushering her upward. For a moment she could not believe he was sending her first onto an unknown ship, but she quickly realized she should never have expected anything less. Half-embarrassed at the prospect of Jack looking up her skirt and petticoats, she sidled up the ladder as quickly as she could, though her high-heeled shoes caught on the braided rope rungs. A dirty lace cuff greeted her at the top of the ladder, and she took the hand hesitantly. She was pulled on deck and met with the silent, intrigued gaze of a tall, pasty-skinned man dressed in a black coat and waistcoat, soiled cravat. Only his long brown perruque wig was fastidious. His moustache was clipped as though he had shaved that morning, but the look of his eyes unnerved her—they seemed damp, hollow puddles.

"Madame Greery," he offered his hand and kissed hers. "Capitain François Moucheau. _Enchanté." _

She tried to shake off the greasy feeling from his fingers, tried to ignore his ill-concealed stare and that of the man beside him. Shorter, stouter, and with a natural head of dirty chestnut hair, he wore neither coat nor clean linen. His trousers were baggy and affixed with enormous faded red ribands. He was leaning heavily on a walking stick. The crew, too—an unremarkable lot of sailors, though the shadows on their faces indicated a poorly fed, poorly treated group. She wondered at Jack's intentions, bringing them aboard this ship. They probably hadn't seen a woman in weeks. And this time she did not have the protection of a curse.

She was almost relieved when Jack came aboard, lugging her father's chest. He gave a hearty laugh. "Tell him I'm happy to make his acquain'ance . . ."

"_Monsieur Greery est heureux de vous connaissez . . ."_

" . . . an' I hope this voyage'll be profitable fer all of us."

"_. . .et il espère que cette voyage . . ." _

Moucheau glanced back and forth between Elizabeth and Jack, then at the chest. _I guarantee safe passage to London, _he said. _But had they the diamond?_

"Tell them we do, but payment upon arrival."

"_Nous l'avons, mais . . ." _

Moucheau nodded curtly and smiled—a sharp, scheming smile. _Of course, _he said. _But I would like to see it just the same. For security purposes, of course._

Elizabeth sighed heavily. Jack shrugged at her. She turned around, convinced she had never been so humiliated in all her life, and drew out the diamond from the bag in her bosom. She held it out with steady palm to Moucheau. The sun broke through the mist, and she could see the diamond sparkle more brilliantly than ever. The crew, she saw, paused momentarily in its labors to look. Moucheau crept forward with wide eyes full of greed. "_Magnifique," _he said.

He said something to the man beside him, who replied in a thick tongue. "Wha's he saying?" Jack whispered in Elizabeth's ear.

"I don't know. I think he's Dutch." She looked back warily.

Jack grabbed the diamond from her hand and hid it away somewhere on his person. "Lovely, in'it? Well-worth the price agreed upon with Cap'n Sparrow, aye?"

"_Ce diamond est joli, non? C'est le valeur . . ."_

"Now, 'f you wouldn't mind, the lady is tired . . ."

"_Donc, s'il vous plait, nous sommes fatigués . . ."_

_Of course, _said Moucheau. _Please, let me show you to your quarters. You may stay in the cabin of my first officer, Kluptker. _He indicated the Dutch gentleman.

"_Merci." _

Kluptker's cabin was small and cramped, about the size of a large closet. There was room only for a small bed, whose sheets smelled foul and decadent, a wobbly washstand upon which stood a cracked pewter bowl, and a lone chair. "Oh, this is horrible," Elizabeth said when she and Jack entered after supper in Moucheau's cabin.

She slumped upon the bed. Jack slammed the door and seated himself on the chair. "_Wha' _is?" he snapped. He immediately untied his hair from the strict solitaire and kicked off his boots. Elizabeth stared at his stockinged feet—one of the stockings had a hole that showed his big toe—and wondered if she was imagining she could smell the stench from where she sat.

"This room—this ship!" she snapped, her voice brittle.

"Ain't so bad," said Jack philosophically, leaning the chair against the wall and lazily tilting his eyes closed beneath his hat. "You got the firs' mate's cabin."

"Ha! A real man of honor would have given us his own cabin," she remarked primly.

A smile from beneath the hat. "Well, he invited us to supper in the captain's dining room." She thought of the event with a turning stomach. The food had been mediocre, but everything in Moucheau's cabin had been cheap and second-rate. It was not even a case of his things being humble. A film of disuse and grease lay on everything from the windows to the silver wear. It had made a surprising contrast to the meal in Barbossa's dining coach. His silver and plate had been immaculately clean. She imagined this was due to the fact, frustrated as they were, the crew of the _Pearl _had had plenty of time and a frantic energy to make things perfect for the time when they could eat again. She never thought she would consider any facet of those pirates virtuous.

"It was quite distasteful." Jack and she had been joined by Moucheau and the Dutchman Kluptker. The latter spoke very little, always in short, broken English rather than French. Moucheau's own French was impeccable, but Jack left most of the talking to Elizabeth. She was increasingly horrified at the silky, dangerous compliments Moucheau kept paying her, while Kluptker did as much with his eyes. To her chagrin, Jack's defense of her was limited.

"Ah, so you didn't enjoy't much?" he asked with mock-concern.

"I should say not," she said tartly. "The fact that they asked me to—" She couldn't finish, twisting her face with disgust.

Jack let his chair touch the floor. "You mean the diamond?" His grin was incorrigible. "Love, they jus' wanted t' watch you put it away."

"I know!" Her eyes flashed vehemently, and she trembled with rage. "And where was your honor then? To let them . . . treat me that way?"

"I said I was an honest man," said Jack. "I never said I was honorable." And a grin full of gold teeth to prove it. Elizabeth gave him the coldest stare possible. "Look," he said, his smile disappearing, "we did agree t'do whatever it took to make this work. Or did tha' only apply t'me?"

She looked away, the more furious because this logic statement made sense. "Well, perhaps you enjoy hurting me and humiliating me—"

"Wha' it amounts to," he interrupted, drowning out her voice, "is tha' they were admirin' yer beauty—which makes sense, seein' as how you are beautiful."

She looked away quickly. How could her anger be extinguished so quickly by one word? "Oh." She studied the ratty coverlet, anything to avoid Jack's gaze. She could feel him staring heatedly down at her just as she might be able to feel the sun beaming from the sky. At last she said, "Um, if you don't mind, I'd like to—"

"Oh," he said. "I'll go an' . . . walk on deck for awhile." Without another word, he grabbed his boots and left, closing the door softly. She waited a moment to see if he was really gone, then used the water in the basin to wash her face and arms. She took her hair down and combed it out with her fingers. There was a wooden comb in the chest, but she knew she would have to dig through layers of cutlasses to reach it. She was about to remove the gown but decided against it—she would feel much safer sleeping in her clothes on board _la Reine Charlotte. _As she climbed into bed, watching the candle burn and waiting for Jack's return, she wondered how much longer she could stay awake. Of course, _he _would have to sleep on the floor—she didn't trust him enough to share her bed, especially after what he had said.

Finally enough time had passed that Elizabeth blew out the candle and prepared for sleep. She hesitated behind the door. She certainly didn't want to fall asleep and have to wake up to the unlocked door, the victim of marauding seaman. "Jack'll be all right," she told herself, jamming the door with the chair. She tried to ignore the smell of abject human sweat coming from the bed.

When she came cautiously aboard the next morning, she found him sitting at the edge of the deck, watching the sun rising over the waves. She wondered if he'd slept at all that night. He did not complain, though, when he saw her—he intimated he had passed a pleasant night in contemplation. Then he snapped open his compass and stared at it greedily.

After several days on board the French schooner, Elizabeth learned there really wasn't much for a woman—who was not acting in capacity as a fellow sailor—to do. She remembered from letters that Norrington had written her, when he was away and serving in the Atlantic, that captains' wives enjoyed few amusements aboard ship, aside from needlework and reading, which Elizabeth had had a great deal of aboard the _Black Pearl. _The sailors' wives were in worse shape; they might be lucky if they could coerce enough fresh water out of the officers for laundry. The idea of doing laundry for thirty extremely dirty men hardly appealed to her, so she was left to her own devices.

She took many turns about the deck, maintaining a stealth so that she avoided Moucheau and attempting to find times when Jack was around, though he seemed increasingly disinterested in her welfare. She found herself more often than not in the cramped, poorly ventilated cabin. She would most often resort to daydreaming. And these daydreams were almost without fail about her husband.

She found herself recalling her wedding day. A few days before, she and Will had enjoyed a rare unsupervised moment when their chaperone—a very elderly lady, wife of the town's bailiff—had fallen into spitting, snoring sleep. A great deal of passionate, furtive kisses had been exchanged. Elizabeth remembered throwing her arms over the strong, supple shoulders of her fiancé and receiving each kiss from his damp, warm lips with greediness and affection.

"You'll be my wife tomorrow," Will had whispered between kisses on her collarbone, one hand gently supporting her head while the other massaged her wrist.

"I know," she had replied. "And then I shall really be yours." They'd giggled and rubbed noses. "Will," she'd asked as he'd continued kisses up the ridge of her ear, "do you think Jack will be at the wedding?"

Will had laughed, pulling back from her, his dark eyes twinkling. "Jack? I don't think so, my love. Why would he be?"

"Well, I just wondered. He might find the supply of free-flowing alcohol tempting."

"Should I have sent word to him?"

"Oh no," she replied with a dazzling smile. "I only wondered whether we might see him."

And then the day itself arrived. As a girl who had barely turned twenty (Will was nearing twenty-two), Elizabeth had in her life regarded marriage with both excitement and indifference. She was of the customary age for marriage but had relied on the fact that as long as her father lived, she would have some source of income—a privilege, she knew, she enjoyed and many others did not.

But the day. She remembered color, excitement, boisterousness, ceremony. The license and certificate were signed (no publishing of the banns for the daughter of Governor Swann, by God). The older married ladies of Port Royal—whose company she was obliged to keep in the weeks following the wedding—claimed it was the grandest event the island had ever seen. A throng of Port Royal's finest citizens and neighboring governors and the denizens of the Navy were crowded into the church pews for the ceremony. She remembered Will standing at the communion altar next to her as they declared their vows. Her movements were stiffened by a heavy gown of figured white silk heavily embroidered in silver, her hair fastened with silk flowers and a lace cap, her skin lightly powdered so as to avoid any unsightly tan she may have gained on board ship (her father's idea). And Will in his finest suit—a point of honor since it was bought and tailored from his own wages rather than as a gift from Governor Swann—of brown cloth with silver brocade lining, a matching waistcoat of silver brocade, and linen of dazzling white.

For a moment he had returned to the formal, slightly jittery Will she had known all her life; she was afraid he was going to address her as Miss Swann during the ceremony. But once he had stumbled over the vows with his earnest, heartfelt voice, it was only subdued fervor which poured from his eyes. All the usual things were done—the scattering of grain outside the church door, the gift of a wedding band, through which unmarried guests later passed pieces of the cake for good luck. Her father was looking resplendent in gold cloth and velvet made in London, and Commodore Norrington was grand and unsmiling in full military dress.

After the ceremony, the festivities had begun in earnest. Dancing commenced in the ball room of the Governor's Mansion, with stately minuets and lively cotillions. The swirl of well-wishers doubled, pouring through the doors of the ball room as the wine flowed freely from crystal. Later in the evening, Elizabeth found herself met by glasses of burnt cherry-brandy, punch, and syllabub; wishing to avoid drunkenness, she sampled carefully. Guests kissed her and shook hands; servants of the household handed out kid gloves like party favors. Elizabeth found herself being thrust farther and farther away from her husband, though she could still see him laughing quietly from across the room.

At the end of a minuet, she found herself at the end of the ball room, where Commodore Norrington stood, drinking a glass of burgundy and watching the dancing silently. Elizabeth approached him as quietly as she could in her heavy gown.

"Ah, Mrs. Turner," he said with an automatic smile. "Congratulations."

She studied his face for any sign of jealousy or anger. "Are you enjoying the evening?"

His smile was cautious, wry. "Very much." He swallowed the wine. "It is a grand affair, but that is fitting."

She took a few steps toward him. "Commodore—James—I would like it if you called me Elizabeth."

She watched his face, imagined she saw a struggle, thought he would refuse. "Then, my dear Elizabeth," he said, taking her hand and pressing it fondly, "I still offer my sincerest wishes for your health and happiness—together."

"Thank you," she said, retaining his hand. For a moment she looked into his green eyes, completely devoid of envy or pettishness. She wondered how things might have been . . .

"Excuse me, sir." She turned. It was Gillette, who doffed his hat at the sight of her and offered his felicitations. "Commodore, I believe we're ready."

Norrington gently let go of Elizabeth's hand and announced brightly, "If you'll make known to your guests, ma'am, that we're to assemble at the fort, we believe you shall see something quite extraordinary."

He turned smartly on his heel, and Elizabeth was left to gather her husband and father. They proceeded up to the fort where the assembled crowd waited in earnest for Norrington's surprise. A full military salute with a barrage of guns was followed by the firing off of cannons into the sea and a final shower of fireworks. Elizabeth had watched in awe and happiness with the rest of them, clasping Will about the neck and kissing him wildly, deaf to the stares of the onlookers. She had never loved him more.

The evening proceeded in revelry; Elizabeth danced a minuet with Norrington and one with her husband. The dancing spilled out the doors of the mansion and into the town below, where the tradesmen and their wives danced to rowdy fiddle music. Guests ate fistfuls of gingerbread and currant cake, and when Elizabeth was feeling the effects of wine and merriment, a huge punchbowl was brought out, forged in J. Brown's smithy apparently.

Elizabeth had been watching, half-hoping and half-knowing that she would be disappointed, for Jack Sparrow. When the punchbowl was wheeled out, she laughed and thought of Jack; when she did not see him scooping mugs of the punch with the other revelers, she was certain he would not be there. Did a shade of sadness pass over her? Perhaps.

In any case, flushed, her feet aching, her fine gown splashed with punch and her stockings dusty, she clung to Will's arm and said, "Shall we to bed now, darling?"

The bridal chamber was a guest room in the mansion; Governor Swann had refused to allow them to stay the night in the room behind the smithy. As Will carried Elizabeth across the threshold, enormous gown and all, they encountered well-wishers in every state of inebriation, some calling obscene things after them. In a normal circumstance, Elizabeth would have been appalled, but, giddy and slightly drunk, she laughed loudly and hurried Will on to their room.

They brought one candle with them. Setting it down and latching the door, all Elizabeth could do at first was stare into the eyes of her husband. In them she saw all the love he had borne her, but something else, a feeling she could only liken to a small fire. He veiled his sweet dark eyes when he leaned down to kiss her. As they kissed, she felt his hands rove over her, smoothing the silk on her bodice, caressing the white of her throat, removing the pins and flowers from her hair until it came down upon her shoulders. Their soft, scented hair mingled together, the perfume from her throat melting on his fingers. His mouth followed where his hands had been, and her heart pounded beneath her gown. She had never felt so ready.

"I love you, Will," she said, lacing her arms around his neck and pulling his curls out of his solitaire.

The warmth in his eyes touched her. "I love you," he whispered. After that, his kisses grew more demanding, and she kissed back with all of her ardor. His hands slipped across her back, tugging at the lacing of her gown. "Elizabeth," he was whispering against her throat, his fingers beneath her chemise, hot against her skin. She felt his hips tense against her, heaving, thrusting half-unconsciously. She longer thought, she _felt . . . _Her hand moved down across the muscles of his stomach to the front of his trousers, caressing what she found there—

"Elizabeth!" Will moved back, drew away with breathless surprise.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, taken very much aback. "I thought . . ." And he gave her such a disapproving look that she trembled.

The rest of the night was a blur to her. Heat, sweat, soft tendriling sounds of pleasure from her husband. And then the pain. A red, splitting pain that colored the evening. There were moments when the pleasure of his kisses and caresses superseded the pain, but before she knew it, he was done and panting madly into her shoulder.

When she was certain that he was asleep, she had burst into hot, bitter tears of frustration and disappointment—and then wept the more because she should not be weeping at all. The matrons had never told her what to expect, she thought with acrimony. She knew from common sense the mechanics of what was to be done, but she'd envisioned things more romantically as per the books she'd read. She'd been ill-prepared, that was all. But that wasn't all. They were together a few more times before his departure, and she found the kissing and kind, loving touches brought her both fire and tenderness—but she was always left with a tight, pinched feeling afterward. And as much as she tried to ease, the pain continued. She supposed it was her own fault. But deep down, she knew it was not.

She forgot that she was not in her husband's arms. She forgot that she was sailing for England in a French schooner. She had been staring at her wedding ring, spinning it over and over in her fingers. She was reclined on the bed in the cabin, her skirts askew. As she sat up, she saw Jack Sparrow sitting in the corner by the door, rocking in the chair silently. He was staring fixedly ahead, fixedly at her.

She quickly pulled her skirts over her stockinged legs, strove to hide her misty eyes from him. "I didn't hear you come in."

He nodded blankly at her. She wondered if it was the light of the unsteady candle—sliding across the floor with the ship—but she thought Jack's eyes were misty as well, contemplative. "What were you thinkin' about, Mrs. Turner?"

His voice was detached, as if it came from a shadow. She turned away so he wouldn't see her wipe the tears in her eyes with the heel of her hand. "Oh. Nothing."

She heard a harsh snicker. "I'm not a fool, love. That weren't nothing."

She swallowed, seeing his eyes following her, almost with a plea. "You're a smart man, Jack," she said darkly.

He dropped from the chair, slamming his boots on the floor. "But ye don' exactly trust me, 's that it?"

She pushed a clump of light brown hair back from her forehead. "I don't trust anyone anymore."

He nodded, a look something between wry approval and the most distant sort of disappointment. She waited for him to speak, to deliver a Jack-flavored homily on how trusting people was a sign of weakness. But he said nothing.

She looked obliquely over at him, and for a moment, her eyes grew wet and warm again. He looked well enough, she supposed, dressed in conventional attire and with his hair cut short. But part of her cursed her for doing it to him, robbing him of his uniqueness, his . . . freedom. She allowed herself to wonder as she had not thought it proper before, whether all relations between husbands and wives were the same as had been hers with Will. For instance, would Jack in Tortuga . . .?

"Jack," she asked, her voice listless and cloying, "what exactly did you do in Tortuga?"

His eyes flashed to her, staring in curiosity and surprise. He laughed—an unpleasant, patronizing laugh. "Damn me, 'Lizabeth, I don' think you really want t' know that."

"Yes, I really do," she snapped.

Jack removed from his seat and came over to sit on the bed next to her. The action was intimate, and she was almost certain he would tell her the truth. " 'F you did," he said, "you would have come wi' us."

She looked away, unsurprised. This jab at her was expected. She snuffed up, wiping away the last remnants of her tears in what she hoped was a nonchalant gesture. "Is this really the extent of it?" she asked him. "Do pirates just steal things and kill people to spend it on women and drink?"

He gave her a tiny, unrepentant shrug. "Yeah," he said with confident brusqueness. She sighed and turned away, moving farther away from him on the cot. "I thought by now ye would have realized the sum o' a pirate's life." He was earnest, not unkind, but she turned her back to him, pretending to ignore him. He touched her lightly on the shoulder. " 'S our place, wha's expected o' us. Jus' as it's your place t' marry, be a lovely young wife—" he gestured fancifully, "—an' make lots of babies."

She spun around, her anger and annoyance evident in her grimace. "But I didn't choose to be a woman—I didn't choose that life. You _chose _to be a pirate—"

He shook his ringed finger at her. "Ah, but you did choose. You chose to marry Will." He dropped one hand, palm-up, on his knee. "You _could _have chosen Norrington—" he dropped the other "—become a Royal Navy wife, hunted pirates, made lots o' aris'ocratic babies."

She hopped off the bed and paced the small room angrily, furious at his impudence. He seemed to sense everything; he seemed to have known she had been thinking about Norrington, about . . . baby-making. "Perhaps right now I don't want to be making _anyone's _babies!" she snapped shrewishly.

"There was another alternative."

She whipped around, saw him carefully studying the creases in his boots. "You mean never marry, become a spinster . . ." Her voice was quieter. He did not reply, but looked up at her, his dark eyes expansive. She could not conjecture what his alternative was, but she was uncomfortable with that look. She turned fiercely away, facing the pewter basin, where her own reflection gazed out at her from the water.

She heard him get up. " 'F you don' want t' be makin' anyone's babies," he cautioned in a dead voice, "I'd suggest makin' sure this door's closed." And he was gone.

Elizabeth never failed to jamb the chair under the door again, even if Jack was still out by the time she went to bed. It was wise, too, as once or twice she was awoken by the sound of a jiggling door knob, and she knew Jack would knock first. She was glad that, despite all his flippant dismissals, he realized the danger to her was real. It had been quite an understatement, to call Jack a "smart man"—by summing up her existence as some kind of mass baby-producer, he had struck a chord. It explained all that to her was intriguing about the romance of piracy: that freedom he so glorified. She might have become bitter about marriage in general, but her blind love for Will never allowed her to fall that far. As for Jack, she supposed it was his shrewd insight that had kept him alive for so long. Against her will, she was still forced to admire him.

She got word the next day they were passing by Calais; the Channel was neutral territory for any ship, and this inspired Elizabeth with the confidence that they might yet get to London alive. But one thing she had for certain determined: she was not going to spend another supper in the company of Moucheau. His allusions were all too clear by now, Kluptker's laughter more vivid than any words. They tended to completely ignore Jack now and since, she surmised, he didn't appreciate being ignored, he withdrew, rather sullenly, from conversation.

She might have starved, for all his help in the matter, but a few passes at the galley and she had made fast friends with the cook—the only man on board, it seemed, who did not have some interest in her. He had the surname of Pierre, a stout-hearted Marseillien who had lost his leg aboard the _Ste.Croix, _a story he never failed to tell her. But she kept alive on the food he would slip her, refusing Moucheau's increasingly flustered meal invitations. She also learned from Pierre that the crew had little feeling toward Moucheau and his Dutch friend.

Clutching a stack of sea bread in a handkerchief, Elizabeth removed from the sweaty darkness of the galley, attempting to remain unseen. Until she saw Jack come up from the hold. It was amusing to her that Jack retained his swaying walk even without his buccaneer costume; she had tried to correct it during lessons on the _Black Pearl, _but it seemed inherently tied to his soul. He walked so toward the upper decks and turned lazily when Elizabeth quietly called his name. The diamond weighed heavily in the bag in her bosom, though she couldn't remember how many times she'd been asked to retrieve it.

"Fancy meetin' you down here," he said quietly.

"What were you doing?"

"Oh, jus' thought I'd slip away an' survey the hold, all by me onesies." The sing song went out of his voice. "I' fact, there is something I'd like you t' see."

Elizabeth looked longingly toward the main deck; her hair stuck in coils to her face from the galley fires, and she anticipated her one enjoyment aboard the ship: cleaning her face with the fresh water basis, refreshed daily. But Jack beckoned her on, and down they went into the hold. It was dank and dark, and a smell of rot was overpowering—it reminded Elizabeth of the smell of the _Black Pearl _when Barbossa' crew commanded it. Elizabeth choked and covered her mouth hard with her hand.

Jack turned to her and said, "Now tha' there is the smell o' death." He kicked the thin layer of dark water collecting in the hold. "Plain an' simple."

_Reine Charlotte _was ostensibly a fresh fruit schooner who came into London every few weeks with halfway fresh fruits: pineapples, coconuts, bananas, plantain, lemons, limes. Elizabeth could see the mountain of heavy crates where the fruit was stored, and it did look comparatively fresh. But much larger was a pile of musket guns under an oily rag, as well as an enormous pyramid of bottles filled with a dark brown liquid. "Is this what you wanted me to see?"

He did not reply but wandered slushily over to the bottles. "Rum, I s'pose. Could test it for them . . ." She flew to his side, spraying filthy bilge all over them. She placed a warning hand on his chest.

"No, Jack, I don't think so."

"Fine," he pouted.

"But is _that _what you wanted me to see?"

He looked at her very gravely. He took two large steps forward as the ship turned sharply. With his boot, he indicated something in the water. Cautiously, she came to his side and looked down.

Skeletons should have long before ceased to frighten her, but she emitted a startled cry when she recognized the dull white globe-shape of a human skull. A trail of vertebrae followed it into the muck. "Killers as well as smugglers?" she managed to ask.

Jack nodded. He began to say something, then took a few steps back. "Shh," he said. Elizabeth heard nothing. "Someone's comin' down."

An outrageous note of panic came into her voice. "Should we get back up? Should we hide?"

"No, no," Jack said. "Listen."

She did. Faint voices became clearer. ". . . take care of him and the girl . . ." she repeated softly.

"_Une boussole_?" Jack asked sheepishly.

"Compass," she said. "They want your compass apparently." Jack immediately seized his compass and tried to jam it into his coat pocket. More seriously, though, she saw him fingering his pistol.

Moucheau and Kluptker appeared at the top of the stairs, laughing rowdily until they saw Jack and Elizabeth. _M'sieur Greery, _said the Frenchman, doffing his hat. _And Madame Greery. What a surprise. _

Elizabeth tried to smile. Her face was stone, she could not unhinge her jaws. _What are you doing here? _

"We got lost, I beg your pardon," Elizabeth trilled in a high, nervous voice.

"Er—aye—'_perdu_'," chuckled Jack, throwing an arm around Elizabeth which landed on her hip. She flashed him an outraged smile.

_Ah, I see, _said Moucheau, chuckling without amusement. _Well, if you'll come with us, we shall be happy to escort you above deck._

As soon as they were out of sight, Elizabeth seized Jack's hand and cast it off her waist with a withering look. He hid his smile and whispered to her, "Good thing we reach London tomorrow. They mi' decide t' kill us before then." She shrugged, convinced Jack would get the axe and she would get something worse. "An' 'Lizabeth, I think I should like t' keep me compass i' tha' sea chest of yours, fer safety's sake."

Elizabeth was awoken the next morning—prematurely, she hastened to tell herself—by a pounding at the door to Kluptker's cabin. Dragging herself awake and hesitating in sleepy-eyed haze, she cautiously crept to the door and removed the chair. She opened it a crack, and Jack's face peered through. "Rise an' shine, Mrs. Turner," he said.

"It's very early," she snapped.

"Aye, but we're comin' in t' London, 'f you'd care t' notice."

"Oh." She yawned. His enthusiasm failed to garner a reaction.

He lowered his voice. "Ye might wan' t' be on deck as soon as ye're able. I fear we may have t' make a run fer it." This news finally woke her to the reality of what he was saying. She remembered the skeleton with more than shiver. She relinquished the door, allowing him entrance.

She began to adjust her dress, combing her fingers through her hair distractedly. "Let me just

--" She attempted to make herself presentable though she really didn't know why. Jack stood at attention, his fingers playing with the air. "All right," she said sharply, stepping over her father's chest.

A haze of fog blew over the main deck as Jack and Elizabeth reached the foremast. The sun was rising in the East and to the West was London. The mouth of the Thames was only a few miles from where they stood. The golden light sprayed over the schooner's masts, painting the decks, topping the prows of the other motley vessels speeding into the river.

"Bring me that horizon," Jack muttered.

Elizabeth turned to him. "What was that?"

"Nothin'," he said. She studied him silently, seeing a wild, wonderful look coming into his eyes. She gave up trying to interpret it, falling prey to her own joy at finally reaching London. She squinted at the coal-filled skies.

_Madame Greery, you are looking in the bloom of health today. _It was Captain Moucheau sidling up the deck, Kluptker, as always, not far behind.

Elizabeth was so jubilant about being so near to her goal that she smiled. "_Oui, merci, M'sieur." _

Moucheau continued down the deck until he stood a few feet from Elizabeth. She could feel Jack's presence behind her, an almost tangible amount of anxious readiness. She felt her smile fading. _Well, it seems we have made our destination, _said Moucheau, a sneer on his face though his voice was light and cordial. _The great city._ Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. The schooner was lazily passing through the first barriers of the Thames. Through the fog, she thought she could make out the colossal form of Tower Bridge. _Time for payment, I believe, _said Moucheau, bowing shortly.

Elizabeth turned round to Jack, seeking his counsel. He stared at her for a moment, increasing her growing unease. "We'll give 'em the diamond," he muttered to her, "but then let's get the hell out o' here." She saw him fingering his pistol. She removed the diamond, then handed it to him when he asked. He was suddenly smiling, raucous. He tramped across the deck toward Moucheau who was giving him a sour look. "Well, here is your prize, an' rightfully earned, too. Cap'n Sparrow will be right pleased." And it suddenly occurred to Elizabeth that they had left the chest in the cabin.

When she looked back, Jack was gesticulating wildly at her. She said quickly, "_Donc, voici c'est votre prix, et . . ." As_ she spoke, Jack handed the gleaming diamond over to Moucheau with great ceremony, ending with his palms together in an awkwardly entreating bow. Elizabeth, increasingly agitated, her foot tapping unconsciously against the deck, looked aft, where the sailors of _la Reine Charlotte _were watching with what seemed wide-eyed expectancy. She looked forward, where the streets of London were becoming clearer. "_Capitain Sparrow sera—"_

Moucheau broke in. _Do you think I am such a fool? Capitain Sparrow, indeed. _Jack looked at him blankly, his eyes bulging in unmitigated surprise. Elizabeth steeled herself. She wanted desperately to run, but there was nowhere to go. The schooner was passing fast through the river. Moucheau laughed derisively, a guffaw echoed by Kluptker. They were both heading her way across the deck. Elizabeth stood straight; her fear was rampant because she did not know what to expect. Moucheau looked down at her with a cruel triumph in his eyes. _I've been thwarted before, Madame, _he whispered secretively, _but not by a slip of a girl. I had no idea you English women were so hard to get. _

She bristled, taking a few steps backward. _Sparrow, I have no further use for you. You may take a boat and go. _He turned back to Elizabeth. _I'm afraid Madame must stay . . ._ Elizabeth put on her meanest scowl, wishing she had a musket or a pistol; she scanned the deck for an oar. Then she saw Jack quietly sneaking off towards the longboat on deck. "Jack!" she snapped, surprised and hurt despite it all.

Jack shrugged. "Sorry, love. You're on your own this time."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. He couldn't be serious! She looked at him in wide-eyed terror, and she realized he was quietly mouthing something. What—?

Moucheau laughed outrageously. _Get this man a boat, _he said, jerking a thumb toward Jack, _and get him out of here. _ He approached Elizabeth with smirking eyes. She threw her arms up to ward off his pursuit. Jack was still mouthing furiously, the crew pulling down the boat on deck to launch. Moucheau drew closer, spilling his rot-scented breath all over her. With a quick slam, she threw her forearm against his face and made a run for it. There was a loud cracking, and when Kluptker had grabbed her, she turned to see Moucheau's nose a puddle of blood. He seized her forearm as she struggled. _Get some rope! _ he roared at Kluptker.

_If a lady acts badly, _he seethed, _we punish her. _He withdrew a long dagger from his belt and raised it toward her. Suddenly the dagger flew backward, and Moucheau was thrown to the ground. Elizabeth wrested herself from his grip and discovered that Jack had come up behind Kluptker, kicked him down, seized the rope, and used it to disarm Moucheau. Now he was at her side, handing her his pistol. "Do not lose this," he told her, the ghost of a smile on his face. "Now, get t' the boat!"

Her eyes raced forward: the boat was at the bow of the boat, ready to launch.

"Jack!"

Jack ducked as Kluptker sprang to his feet and thrust his cutlass at Jack's head. Jack's hat flew across the deck as he rolled out of Kluptker's grasp, drawing his own cutlass. The crash and scrape of steel on steel. She looked at the pistol in her hand, cocked it. Jack and Kluptker danced across the deck. She rushed toward the boat, scooping up Jack's lost hat as she did.

She slammed onto the deck. Moucheau had seized her ankle and brought her down. The pistol went flying. Moucheau growled and raised his dagger over her. She spun, grabbed a bucket of bilge water from the deck. The water landed in Moucheau's face, and she banged his face with the bucket. Howling in pain, he released her ankle and she scrambled across the deck, limping.

Jack and Kluptker were against the larboard side, Jack light and nimble with parrying blows, Kluptker all brawn with vicious swinging blows. _Get them! _Moucheau roared at the crew, his face a mess of blood. Reluctantly, the crew assembled in front of the boat, preventing Elizabeth from reaching it.

"Shoot them! Any o' them!" Jack shouted, now astride the mast and cutting the canvas. It slammed the unsuspecting Kluptker.

Elizabeth gazed at the crew, wondering which one she should shoot, then thought the better of it. Moucheau was hobbling toward her, loading a pistol of his own. She jumped backward over the capstan, seized the wheel, and slammed the jib boom toward the crewmen. Jack jumped down from the rigging beside the boat, sword drawn.

The crew ducked, and the boom swept across, hitting the unsuspecting Jack, and sent him howling into the river. Moucheau laughed, spitting blood on the deck, and aimed his pistol at Elizabeth. She climbed onto the railing and, unable to avert a shrill scream, jumped into the Thames.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter VI.

"Sir, if you wish to have a just notion of the magnitude of this city London, you must not be satisfied with seeing its great streets and squares, but must survey the innumerable little lanes and courts . . ." –Samuel Johnson

The water was cold and brackish all around her, immediately soaking through her gown. Elizabeth struggled to keep her head above water. The smell of rot was already overpowering. She paddled furiously, trying to keep up with Jack ahead of her. Poplin was lighter than brocade and petticoats, but she was still weighed down. She clutched Jack's hat with one hand, trying hard to keep his pistol from falling out of her bodice.

_Shoot them! Shoot them! _she heard the manic voice of Moucheau scream from the schooner. For a moment she was afraid they had cannons stowed away—little four-pounders, perhaps—they were planning to roll out on deck and, in Jack's words, blast the bejesus out of them. She was almost relieved when it was only the pings of musket bullets hitting the water beside her.

"Jack!" she cried, having lost him in the confusion. She held her breath, ducking under the grey water to avoid the rain of bullets. When she emerged, her limbs burning, she found herself in the path of a single-masted sloop. She desperately swam forward, nearing the docks on the left side of the Thames.

She heard loud curses of "_Merde!" _and "_Nom d'un chien!" _from behind her and turned to see the sloop blocking the path of _la Reine Charlotte. _She realized that, in moving the boom and the helm being otherwise unmonitored, the schooner had been allowed to turn hard aft. There it remained, foolishly with its prow at an angle.

Ahead of her was bustle and fog, a half dozen ships of all masts and rigging jostling through the foul Thames water. On either side of her, wharves led off to London streets. Then she saw Jack, swimming with grim efficiency. "Jack!" she screamed, launching off toward him. He neither turned nor acknowledged her when she caught up with him. Exhausted, she flung one of her arms on his shoulder for support.

"Ge' off, ge' off!" he snapped pettishly. "That' was right clever o' ye, to send me overboard! An' the chest—an' me compass—left too! A new low for Captain Jack Sparrow."

She had not the energy to argue, fighting every second to stay afloat. Instead, she pointed out, "I saved your hat and your pistol." She extended them to him, and he snatched them both away, dropping the sodden hat on his head.

They continued to swim upriver, the fog thinning and the host of ships slowly multiplying. The noise on the riverbanks was deafening. Jack scanned the water every so often, but Elizabeth suspected he had no idea where he was going. She decided to ask for his help, because she was so exhausted she feared she would drown. "Jack, you know, I'm really going to need some help here . . ."

"I know." He took her hands and placed them on his shoulders. "Jus' hang on a moment." She saw him squint, then he swam forward. She tried not to cling to him, tried kicking her exhausted legs to take some of the burden off him. She felt the workings of his shoulder muscles spasming under her gripping hands and could only wonder how he'd managed to save her before.

Apparently Jack discovered what he was looking for. Between the larger ships, small boats were idling in the water, their oarmen calling loudly, "Scudders! Scudders!" "We'll commandeer this here vessel," said Jack and launched into the side of it.

"Oi! You! What d'ye think you're doin'?" the oarman shouted at Jack, raising his oar menacingly.

"D'ye provide water taxiing between both sides o' the river?" Jack wheedled, holding onto the boat with one hand and shaking his other fist at the boatman.

"Aye. 'Ave you got three shillings?"

Jack looked at Elizabeth, who shook her head. "But I have got this," said Jack, brandishing his pistol.

"So 'ave I," said the boatman, leering with green-colored teeth, bringing out a musket of his own. Jack's eyes ballooned. "Shove off, then," the oarman snapped, waving Jack off brusquely.

"Any more brilliant ideas?" Elizabeth muttered, kicking her legs listlessly.

"No," Jack spat back. "You?"

Elizabeth scanned the water. Her eye was caught along the right side of the river, and there it was—Hangman's Dock. She recognized it immediately by the hanging cages hovering lethargically above the water and the scavenging birds dawdling. She didn't want Jack to see, so she said, "We need to get out of the water. Let's swim over to that pier there . . ." She meant the abandoned pier between wharves on the left bank.

Jack assented wordlessly, and the two began one last swim of desperation, mired in fog and sludge, dodging oarmen and larger boats. Finally they flung themselves up onto the pier and dragged themselves onto the dirty cobblestones of a back alley street. Elizabeth knew she was sprawled improperly, her skirts hiked up and revealing sopping stockings and bare knees, but for the moment she was just relieved to be alive. She knew she was disgustingly dirty, the white lace on her gown a muddy grey, the empty money purse hanging about her neck. She coughed, clearing that foul water from her orifices, and tried to dry her hair and gown. She glanced beside her, seeing Jack on his back and apparently not moving. She crawled over to him. "Jack, are you all right?"

He sat up, wiping muck from his beard. "Where in hell are we?"

She gazed around her. The back alleyway was narrow and dark, but it opened on what looked a busy street, noisy with clattering carts and the sounds of early morning businesspeople. She had assumed it was Wapping, but she began to doubt herself. She shivered. "I don't know."

"Don' you?" Jack asked in a voice of outrageous nonchalance. He began to clean his pistol against his dirty trouser leg. "Remember, between the two o' us, _you're _the one tha's been here before, aye?"

Elizabeth looked up the wharf. Two rough-looking sailors were spitting vividly on the dock; across the Thames, a group of five women were waving to passing ships. Dressed in low-bodiced gowns of bright hues, their stockings visible and elaborately clocked, Elizabeth was fairly certain as to what their occupation was. A pair of men's quiet shoes were coming through the alleyway. "I was only ten," she reminded Jack. "I hardly remember England at all."

"Well, where's this uncle o' yours? How are we s'posed t' get t' him?" He had abandoned cleaning his pistol for removing his boots and dumping the contents.

Elizabeth saw two men emerge from the alleyway. One was surprisingly well-dressed for this part of town: a coat of velvet, dark blue, daringly cut, and a matching pair of breeches, his waistcoat richly embroidered in gold. He was what some might call a French dog, dandified beyond what was thought proper for a Briton. He was portly and pale, followed closely by a silent, gaunt man in plainer black attire. Elizabeth wondered why he hadn't been robbed, and then remarked upon the heavy cudgel the other fellow was carrying. She tried to stand, but her head swam, forcing her down. She knew this was quite rational from her circumstances, but she still felt ill at ease. "Let's go, Jack."

"Go where?" he displaced pirate snapped, returning his boot to his foot and stuffing his pistol into his coat pocket.

Elizabeth stood, her legs burning. She noted that the portly man was covertly watching her. As was a filthy child of about twelve with eyes of greed. As were the prostitutes across the river, who were smiling and blowing kisses—at Jack. Who had evidently seen them. She looked down to find him grinning stupidly and waving his ringed hand.

Elizabeth shook her head in disgust if not surprise and seized him by the shoulders. "Jack, I really think that we should go. My uncle lives in Pall Mall. We can walk, or perhaps rent a cart . . ."

"Excuse me, but may I be of some assistance?"

Elizabeth turned, shocked to find the portly man doffing his hat and smiling obsequiously at her. She opened her mouth to speak, but she was feeling faint for a second time. She caught sight of the cudgel and lost all power of speech.

To her utter shock, Jack rose—with questionable grace, it was true—and stood near the gentleman. "May I introduce meself? This is me wife Elizabeth," he flung a hand out toward her, "an' my name is John Turner." Elizabeth gasped. She hadn't expected him to ever get it right. "Unfortunately," Jack went on with heroic bravado, "we were comin' int' your fair city when our boat was capsized. Horrible, really. Ha' to swim t' save our lives."

"Why, that's disgraceful!" exclaimed the man. His pomaded, curled wig gleamed. "Dear me! What horrors! It's remarkable you survived."

"And we lost all of our luggage as well," Elizabeth put in finally, exchanging a look with Jack. "Which is why you find us in this state." Water rolled off her hair and down her nose.

"My poor dear lady! This must indeed be a trial for you." The effusive gentleman doffed his coat and threw it impulsively around her shoulders.

"That's not necessary, sir," Elizabeth protested, noting the fair scent of rosewater upon the coat's lining.

"Please, my name is Joseph Tolby, and I am grateful to be of help." His eyes glowed. "How else may I assist you?"

Jack laughed quietly. Tolby smiled, indulgent. "How much d'ye want, for your assistance?" Jack said, _sotto voce, _to Tolby. Elizabeth hoped the latter hadn't seen his gold teeth.

"You misunderstand me, my dear Mr. Turner. I don't know where you've heard stories about lady London, but in this city, not all of us are pirates!" He laughed uproariously. Jack gazed at Elizabeth, curling his lip. Elizabeth laughed nervously, elbowing Jack when he laughed too.

"Don't show your teeth!" she snapped, throwing her arm around her "husband" when the other man gazed at her strangely.

"We are, uh, being expected by my uncle—perhaps you have heard of him—Bartholomew Swann, baronet?" She simpered sweetly.

"Oh, indeed," said Tolby, "I have heard of him. Yet to make his acquaintance."

"—he lives in Pall Mall. If you could perhaps take us to him—?" She saw Jack winking at the prostitutes between her back.

"My dear lady," said Tolby with emotive earnestness, "I shall have no such thing. I shall call my carriage and take you to my abode. You _must _get changed from those wet clothes at once!"

"Oh, no, we couldn't possibly—"

"An it would please you, sir," Jack cut in, bowing perfectly, "we would be much obliged."

"Then it's settled. Smith," he indicated his servant, "call the, uh, carriage, will you?"

"Yes, sir." Smith strode off, and Elizabeth turned to Jack, biting her lip out of sheer anger. "Why did you accept his offer?"

"Why not?" said Jack with true pragmatism. "I don' know about you, but I'm hungry, and I stink." _You always stink, _thought Elizabeth. "'Member what I told ye? What a man can do and wha' a man can't do. We can go with this man an' get cleaned up. We _can't _get to yer uncle's without his help. Savvy?"

Tolby, who had been gazing quite nervously in the direction in which his servant had disappeared, gripping his gloves with something more than force of habit, suddenly relented and, with a sunny smile, came back to stand by Elizabeth. She reflected later it was this smile—kind, admiring, and almost possessive—that offended Jack.

"Here, put this on," Jack said in a harsh whisper, stepping between his "wife" and Tolby, doffing his wet broadcloth coat and setting on Elizabeth's shoulders, right on top of Tolby's coat of finer materials and dryer cloth.

Elizabeth glared at him through her wet, stringy hair. "I'm perfectly—" she paused, noticed the unmistakable sound of chattering teeth. "Oh, Jack, you need this more than I do!"

Jack seized her by the shoulders and spun her away from him, jabbing her arm through the crook of his elbow, as they proceeded toward Tolby's carriage. "Wear i', 'Lizabeth," he ordered with a finality that prickled the hairs on the back of her neck.

She could not help but notice with some surprise than when Joseph Tolby held out one pasty but strong arm to help her ascend the carriage, Jack was quick to intervene, insuring that it was _his _arm she took, that it was _his _coat she held close. She found it troublesome rather than helpful, and was not exactly feeling well in her wet gown and the heavy layers of two coats on her shoulders. The drive to Tolby's townhouse was mercifully brief; she and Jack took the forward seat while Tolby smiled blandly from his gallant backward seat. What roads there were in Port Royal were surprisingly well-maintained, and the rough stones in London's East end of town were somewhat jarring. Elizabeth's annoyance quickly dissipated when she realized it was perhaps the first carriage ride Jack had ever experienced. He sat rigidly in his seat, gripping the wet knee of his trousers and appearing to have a heated staring contest with the open window.

Elizabeth remembered little of London, but she was not moved by the scenes progressing out the windows in pantomime. Tolby said very little which struck her as odd, but she was grateful for not having to come up with witty conversation in the wake of just barely surviving death by drowning. The drive was not long, and soon they found themselves in the drive of a fine, cozy house.

"Allow me to forego the pleasantries, Mrs. Turner, in lieu of restoring your comfort and dignity," Tolby said brightly as he showed them up the grand staircase, his valet leading the way. Elizabeth marveled at Jack's composure, as he kept his hands folded handsomely across his waistcoat, though his eyes roved about in their calculating way—she was certain he was deciding what goods in the house would be of most value to smuggle to the Caribbean. A Chippendale chair here, a collection of Delft China there . . . Jack may have been a pirate and a rogue, but his taste was impeccable.

They proceeded up the staircase, each footstep becoming heavier as Elizabeth's soaked gown and the weight of the coats on her shoulders drained more of her strength. She clung to the balustrade until they had reached the door to a finely appointed gentleman's chamber. "I hope you will not mind using my own chamber for your toilette, sir," said Tolby with a smile. "I fear our guest accommodations—"

"Very much obliged, sir," said Jack, nodding in the same indulgent manner she had seen him use with Gibbs on occasion.

Tolby stepped forward into the room, beckoning Jack. "I shall have my man select an accoutrement for you, if you please," Tolby prompted, "and myself accompany Mrs. Turner to choose her own accommodations." He bowed slightly and gazed at Smith, then Jack.

"Uh . . . might you gi' me a moment alone wi' my wife, sir?"

Elizabeth stared at him. What did he think he was doing!

Tolby appeared to share the same sense of perplexity, giving Jack a confused chuckle and appealing to Elizabeth with his bulging blue eyes. Jack remained firm, however, going so far as to grab Elizabeth's elbow and pull her close to him. "Certainly," said Tolby with a forced smile. He bowed and ushered the valet out.

As soon as they were alone, Jack slammed the door shut, pulling Elizabeth in with him. "What—?" she began.

"Find me a shirt," he ordered, staring at the cheval glass set in the center of the room. He was tugging at the edges of his shirt, pulling them out of the waistband of his trousers.

"I don't—"

"A shirt, 'Lizabeth," he snapped, looking over his shoulder at her and nodding in the direction of the armoire. "Get me a shirt from 'is cabinet."

Elizabeth threw up her arms, dragging her wet skirt and tearing open the drawers. As she raced through the trousers, waistcoats, and shirts of cambric, linen, and silk, she wondered sincerely if Jack had lost his mind. Was he planning to steal Tolby's wardrobe from under the good Samaritan's nose while convincing all and sundry that he and Elizabeth were conducting some grossly inappropriate activity? She did as she was told, however, and found a clean, dry shirt. She turned to hand it to Jack.

He had succeeded in removing his own shirt, now in a sodden pile at his feet, and snatched the new one from her grasp. "I can conceal me teeth 'f I don' smile, as you pointed out so helpfully," he said, "but 'f they see me tattoos . . ."

He had a point. As he slipped the shirt over his head, she saw he had a very good point. She was quite familiar with the sparrow tattoo and pirate brand on his forearm, but she had never seen before the anchor on his right bicep, nor the well-endowed mermaid with a crooked grin and green tail below it. He had shown her the two scars from the bullets that, she surmised, had nearly killed him. They were particularly vivid in contrast to the tiny, hand-lettered name 'Lily-Rose' under his left shoulder. And she saw now that a large chunk of his left shoulder had been gouged away, leaving a jagged hole, like someone taking a large bite out of a hunk of bread. And she remembered the strange, molten-colored scars on the inside of his left arm. It looked as though someone had melted a candle over his flesh.

But what she was unprepared for were the strange, light welts across his back, like little flicks of ribands, pale against his bronzed skin—too many days spent in the sun—insidious and delicate. They appeared to be the welts left when a man is flayed alive. Where had these come from? she wondered. She knew sailors of the Royal Navy were often punished with strokes of the lash, and perhaps among pirates too. Unbidden, the thought of Jack in some distant past slaving on a Jamaica plantation—prisoners were still sent to work in servitude, often for political crimes—arose in her mind, disquieting.

She ducked her head, embarrassed and strangely fascinated. The ten-year-old wanted to know where the infamous Jack Sparrow had acquired such wounds, but the grown-up Elizabeth Turner—she twisted her wedding ring on her finger—was ashamed to be staring at another man's bare torso.

She looked up, saw Jack trying to arrange his hair back into a respectable solitaire. He glanced over at her and gave her a look she had never seen him give her before. She waited for the snappish, sarcastic comment, but it never came. He stared at her with something between surprise, curiosity, and tenderness.

If either of them had been moved by clarity to speak, the thoughts died on their lips when Tolby hammered loudly on the door. In a moment, he and the butler were inside, smiling uncertainly. Tolby bid adieu to Jack, faintly puzzling over the shirt switch, while offering his arm to Elizabeth. "I am showing you to my aunt's chamber," he said, "as she often comes to visit me. I apologize that I have nothing to offer but the maid's best gown, but I am afraid nothing of my aunt's would fit." He smiled, showing Elizabeth a plain gown of brownish color laid across the bed.

"We are deeply in your debt, Mr. Tolby," Elizabeth murmured, trying to curtsy and stumbling.

"My dear lady," said Tolby, "it is my pleasure to be of small service."

Elizabeth smoothed the folds of the gown on the dusty bed. She waited expectantly for Tolby to leave her to dress, but instead he stayed where he was, gazing at her covertly under furtive eyelashes. His tenacity unnerved her, and thoughts of Moucheau were not far off.

"Well, forgive me," he cried, all smiles. "I shall leave you. She curtsied, watching him go until she was certain the door was locked behind her. The gown fit, but more importantly, it was so comforting to finally leave her wet clothes behind. Her sodden gown she folded up, determined not to leave it behind after so much work. She wondered how Jack was faring in the room across the landing. Laced loosely into her stays, her stockings replaced by cleaner but coarser ones of cotton, and her water-logged shoes, semi-dry, she composed herself and marched across the landing.

Jack stood waiting silently behind Tolby and the servant Smith, and Elizabeth had to cover her face in her hand to prevent herself from laughing at him. His hair was clean and dry and slipped into a solitaire—and tied with raspberry-colored riband. There were ruffles on his shirt-sleeves that looked quite at odds with his sooty hands, and over this, a dark blue frock coat with highly decorated buttons and pocket fobs. The waistcoat was lime green, heavily figured in embroidery, and his cravat a mystery of intricate linen. Most of all there was a scowl on his face: he looked some savage being trapped in a dandy's clothes. She saw him clutching his battered three-cornered hat in one hand, the other fingering a pocket in which she supposed his pistol was hidden. Was he planning to gun them all down for forcing him into this frippery? Or was he going to shoot himself to be free of the unbearable humiliation? She bit her lip hard and floated over to the group. Tolby was offering Jack some snuff before taking a generous look at Elizabeth.

"Mrs. Turner!" he cried delightedly, rushing over to her to take her hands. "What a vision!"

"I hardly think it necessary to lavish such undue praise on me," Elizabeth said coolly, looking at Jack, who ignored her.

"Oh, no indeed!" Tolby insisted, squeezing Elizabeth's hands fondly. She did not return his gesture, and he brought her over to Jack and joined their hands. Jack seemed to look down on her with disdain, but she imagined it was more strain—he would much rather grab some of the Delft China, raid the wine cellar, and leave. "Are you certain you will not stay for dinner? Or a late breakfast—please?"

Elizabeth squeezed Jack's hand, hoping it might rally him. "We really could not impose. We _are _expected by my uncle and—"

"Though we are much obliged t'ye," Jack cut in, "my _wife _an' I must be on our way."

"Well, if you're certain," said Tolby, nonplussed.

"We are already very indebted to you." She curtsied, and Jack quickly followed with a tired bow.

"Well, I shall show you to my carriage," Tolby offered. Jack quickly dropped Elizabeth's hand and muttered in her ear, "I hate carriages, 'Lizabeth."

"Be quiet, Jack."

It was Tolby who now helped her into the carriage, seated next to her "husband," and she was much surprised when their benefactor suddenly became very talkative. "Have you never been to London, sir?" he asked suddenly.

Jack scowled. "No. I come from Virginia. Plant tobacco." He glanced at Elizabeth.

"How interesting," said Tolby blandly. "And your wife, sir?"

"I lived here when I was young—" she strained to make herself heard over the yodels of three milkmaids crossing the street "—but my home is in Port Royal. Our home," she hastily added.

"If you haven't seen the city in several years, may I suggest some sights you might like to observe while you stay?" He gestured out to the hulking grey dome that was omnipresent on the skyline. "You'll want to see St. Paul's, of course." Outside, the coachman yelled for a sedan chair to get out of the way, all the while avoiding a donkey and cart and two urchins who were trying to hitch a ride.

"And the monument to the fire; it's quite new." He smiled at Elizabeth. "How do you find our city?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "Things have changed since I was here. More people, more . . ." She gazed out the window at the bawd standing in the alehouse doorway, the legless cripple soliciting alms, the contrastive country squire and his wife exiting a coffee house. " . . . of everything."

"Can't breathe," Jack commented, tugging at his collar.

"That's a common complaint," Tolby replied. "Some mornings the sky is black with coal until ten." Elizabeth thought of the blue, clear sky in Port Royal. She wondered if Jack was thinking the same thing, as she saw his glance turn hard and then it was incredibly wistful, pure, free, like on the rare occasions he took the wheel of the _Pearl. _

"Ah, here we are," Tolby announced. The carriage stopped, and it was Jack's turn to be the first to jump down. He lent his arm to Elizabeth indifferently, and she climbed down carefully, trying not to clutch him, trying not to give him any idea that she needed his help.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Tolby," she said in her sweetest voice. "We will return the clothes at the earliest convenience."

Tolby laughed and waved away this suggestion airily. "My pleasure and privilege, Mrs. Turner." He touched his hat. "Mr. Turner. I am certain we shall be seeing much more of each other."

Jack closed the door with a close smile, though if it was that way because he was concealing his teeth or because the smile really was forced, Elizabeth could not tell. "Pleasantries an' all that," she heard him calling after Tolby as the carriage went on its way. She saw his first clench, and he muttered under his breath, "Eunuch."

Elizabeth replied starchily, "What was that?" knowing full well what he had said.

"'S a eunuch," he repeated dolefully. "I'm sorry, 'Lizabeth. It is indeed a tragedy tha' your most passionate admirers are eunuchs."

"Why do you automatically assume everyone who admires me is a eunuch! He was very helpful."

" 'Lizabeth, are you some kind of eunuch magnet? Or per'aps their patron saint?" He grinned. "This fellow, and Will—"

"Will is not a eunuch!" Elizabeth snapped.

"So glad you're able t' tell me tha' with such certainty," Jack responded.

Elizabeth seethed but managed to calm and say, "Come on." They turned for the first time to the palatial house on Pall Mall. Elizabeth was gratified to see Jack's eyes widen in surprise momentarily. As they were staring at the broad baroque face, a sedan chair came crashing through. "Have a care!" the carriers shouted before tumbling past them.

"Worse'n buccaneers, those lot," Jack said blankly. He turned to her. "Now, how does this work? The prodigal niece returns, eh?"

"He's expecting us, after all—" She took a step toward the door.

He stopped her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Wait. How's tha'?"

Elizabeth stared at his filthy hand, gripping her firmly but impersonally by the shoulder. She remembered how he had held her that night in Port Royal, mostly drunk, but with such force. She looked away. A tinker passed by on the street, banging his pots and calling for metal to mend. "That night you came to Port Royal," she said, "I wrote to my uncle, telling him I would be visiting."

Jack was no longer smiling. "You were so certain, then, tha' I would agree t' yer scheme?"

"It wasn't certainty, no." She shoved him roughly away. Her voice was embarrassed and annoyed, but the least bit pleading. "It was completely harebrained hope."

"Harebrained," he repeated. " 'S a quality tha' suits you." She wondered if he was thinking of her alcohol-burning initiative. They went into the house together, Jack sheepishly lending her his arm. They were received in the drawing room, where Elizabeth saw Jack pacing in his half-crazed walk while examining the fine tapestries and the gilt-trimmed furniture, the silver tea set.

Elizabeth saw little change in her uncle Bartholomew when he entered the room: he had not exchanged his dark brown long perruque for a shorter campaign wig, or even a grey one as her father had done. He was a shorter, slightly pudgier version of her father, with a kind smile and sallower skin. When he saw her, he exclaimed, "Is this my niece?" She saw his black brows thunder, his lips tremble. "Elizabeth?"

She took a few steps toward him, furtive and hesitant. "Yes, Uncle."

He held out a hand from which sparkled several rings. "Please, shake my hand, my child, if you will . . ." She shook the old man's hand and allowed him to pull her close. "My dear," he said, placing a kiss on the top of her head, then holding her at arm's length, she suspected because of the smell. He wrinkled his nose at her, then said, "This is a joy. Verily a joy." And though she smelled like bilge, she knew that his warmth was genuine.

"Well, you've grown into a good girl I see—bless me, a young lady. Shame on young Weatherby, taking you to the West Indies like he did—your skin's as dark as a spot!"

Elizabeth laughed quietly. She saw her uncle glance over at Jack, who was boredly playing with the cuffs of his shirt-sleeves. Her uncle's voice was slow and deliberate. "Well, and you've married now, haven't you?"

Elizabeth looked up at her uncle. "I have."

"And this is the man?"

Jack strode over, doffed his hat rather inelegantly and said, "Sir Swann, 's an honor. My name is John Turner, an' I ha' had the charm o' marrying your niece."

"Mr. Turner," Swann replied, giving Jack's hand a firm shake. Jack edged back, his eyes darting mistrustingly. Elizabeth realized he must be leery of having his tattoo revealed.

"Uncle," Elizabeth said, drawing attention away from Jack's discomfort, "you didn't hear our sad news?"

Swann's face became solemn, the lines deepening. "If you mean the death of my brother, yes, I was informed. Commodore Norrington—I believe you know the young man?—" Elizabeth's mouth opened in surprise, and she heard Jack snicker—"he called some weeks ago to relay the message. Which is why," his voice became stern, "I wondered at _you _not being in half-mourning. Your father, after all, Elizabeth."

She hung her head. She certainly was not in half-mourning, and she hadn't even arrived with the look of grief on her face that she felt somewhere beneath her fear and anxiety. She did miss her father, but the wild circumstances that had taken over her life had crowded sad thoughts of him away. It was just as well. "You are certain to find this some fantastic tale," she began, "but the boat my husband and I were on, coming into the city . . ."

"Yes?"

" . . . it—it capsized and we were turned overboard and lost all our things!"

"That's deplorable!" Swann exclaimed. Elizabeth looked down, mortified that lying came so easily.

"An' sir, 'f I may," Jack broke in, waving his hands across his face dramatically, "we were attacked by pirates. All our things, ta'en." He gestured close to Swann's face. "We ha' t' swim to the south bank o' your river."

"Pirates!" Swann exasperated. "That's not possible. There are no pirates fool enough to come into London, unless through Hangman's Dock!"

Jack leaned in confidentially, and Swann, of an even more delicate disposition than his younger brother, discreetly raised a scented handkerchief to his sallow face. "You'd be surprised," said Jack.

Elizabeth turned scarlet and elbowed Jack, hard. "Uncle," she said pleadingly, "we're both very tired. Do you think it would be too much to ask . . .?"

"Of course, my dear. If your things have been lost at sea, well, you shall have to stay here and borrow what you need."

"We were given these clothes by a . . . benefactor," Elizabeth said, for some reason reluctant to mention Tolby by name. "We shall have to return them . . ."

"Allow me to send an order to my tailor, and your cousin Mary's dressmaker," he said.

"Much obliged," said Jack, a smile in his eyes. "As ye may have no'iced, these colors don' suit me much."

And Swann laughed robustly, startling Elizabeth. "That appears to be Gospel, Mr. Turner." He clapped Jack on the back, and then turned to the footman at the door. "Prepare a room for Mr. and Mrs. Turner."

"Uh, two bedchambers?" Elizabeth ventured weakly.

Swann looked back at her, confusion spreading over his sallow features. "Two, Elizabeth? What can you mean, two hearty, newly married people like you?"

Elizabeth was cowed into submission. "Then one, of course, Uncle."

Swann nodded approvingly. The footman left without a word. Elizabeth looked over at Jack, who was trying not to grin and reveal his teeth. "And are you hungry?"

"Unimaginably so," replied Jack.

"Very well," Swann said, smiling timidly. "I'll have some food brought to your room. Will you be well enough to join us for supper this evening?"

"Undoubtedly."

Elizabeth decided a gamble—in Port Royal, where uncontaminated water (fresh or salt) was more abundant than in London, she was used to bathing occasionally. If her memory of London was correct, people such as her uncle had the privilege of bathing twice a year. "Uncle," she said, "I know this is a bit irregular, but owing to the fact we've just been submerged in filth, would it be much trouble to draw us up baths?"

"That will not be a problem," her uncle said. "The water comes in today."

"Sir Swann," Jack faltered, "you know, I don' think I really need a bath. I wouldn't wan' t' use up your water. Not fittin' a guest."

Swann took Jack aside and told him, _sotto voce, _"My dear sir, if your wife thinks you need a bath, God help you but you'd better do it, man!" Jack gave a weak half-smile.

A hot water bath had never felt quite so invigorating, Elizabeth reflected. True, even boiled, the water still came to her dirty, but with several scented attars, she was hopeful that most of the muck she had accumulated would be washed away. A wooden tub had been set aside for her in a small, closet-sized room adjoined to the chamber she was supposed to be sharing with Jack. She hoped he understood that he was sleeping on the floor again or not at all—perhaps her uncle could be persuaded soon enough to allow them separate rooms.

After she was well-bathed, she dressed and traded places with Jack, who had been gorging on the meal Swann had sent up. There was, with it, a small bottle of port that she saw him carrying with him into the closet. " 'S good stuff, this port," he had told her, his head lolling rather wildly. "Not 's warm goin' down as good Caribbean rum, but . . ." He hiccuped into her face, deafening her with the scent of wine. She pushed him away a little disdainfully. Somewhat timidly, he approached the bath (Elizabeth's dirty bath water the servants had turned into the garden and filled Jack's bath _anew_—unheard of, the servants whispered). Elizabeth wondered if Jack had ever taken a real bath.

He had gorged on the food that had been brought up to them, and there was nothing for Elizabeth to do but wait until supper. She wondered if she should seek out her uncle and talk to him. She was half-tempted to confess all to him and beg his forgiveness. But she couldn't leave without the hope of finding Will, and she couldn't do that without money. She couldn't give Jack up to the authorities either; whatever he was, he didn't deserve to be dragged all this way for nothing.

Elizabeth was uncertain, when she went down for supper, whether she would meet Jack there or if she should risk entering the closet. She was told by the servants that Jack was asleep in their bedchamber. When asked if he should be woken up, she said no. She was angry until she reflected that he had probably not slept above a few hours a night on _Reine Charlotte. _In an extra _coup d'état, _she was free to present a convincing façade to her uncle without Jack's inference. She let him sleep.

Sleepy and full, Elizabeth mounted the stairs to the chamber she and Jack were sharing. She hoped not to find him still asleep in the middle of the canopied bed. Instead, she met him standing on the landing in front of the door, examining the Persian carpet on the smooth parquet floor. "Awake, I see," she said.

"How was supper?" he asked. He glanced at her quickly and then away again in a shy manner that he did not often exhibit. She turned her head toward him curiously, thinking how strange he looked in the violently-colored plumage of Tolby's borrowed suit. She saw, too, for the first time that there were worn, dark circles under his eyes—not the kohl-lining, she was certain, but physical attestation to the strain he'd been under.

"Quite good, though your absence was noted." She thought back to her own nervousness, descending the stairs alone in a foreign household. She was fortunate to dine solely with her uncle; her cousins Mary and Paul often dined with Swann but were both otherwise occupied. As she sat, folding her gown back in the most ladylike manner she could devise, making her apologies for Jack's absence, she began to realize how lonely her uncle was in the house since his wife—her aunt Julia—had died. He had been a man of few words when his niece had known him, and now he was reduced to garrulously repeating the same sentences without knowing it. He had comforted her for the loss of her father, though the brothers had not been very close since Weatherby's departure as Governor of Jamaica. There had been a blade at the bottom of her stomach, cutting her for lying so easily to her own kin. But Jack was not there, and his absence kept her mouth shut.

"Beg yer pardon," Jack said, more or less automatically.

She cleared her throat. "My uncle told me that his tailor would require you to give measurements tomorrow for your new set of clothes."

"Oh yes?"

"I'll be going to the dressmaker's to acquire new gowns myself, so we probably won't see much of each other until evening. There's to be an assembly tomorrow night at nine—we've been invited." She watched Jack carefully; he made no reaction. "There will be dancing—we'll have to dance—"

"You may dance, Mrs. Turner, 'f it pleases you," he said frostily. His eyes were sharp. She wondered what he wanted her to say. That she had the inheritance money and was ready to split it with him? Could he be that naïve?

"I intend on retiring at once. I believe I'm going to change for bed—you should do the same." She tossed it over her shoulder almost insolently as she walked past him and disappeared into the bedchamber. Such opulence at one point would not have surprised her, but being so long from the home she had known as a child, the large canopied bed of oak with counterpane worked in silver-thread and green impressed her. The servants had not yet been able to remake the tousled coverlet Jack had left in his wake, and this jarred Elizabeth enough that she bent to fold it over nicely. In addition to the bed were a padded chaise-lounge, a vanity, and a bedside table, already waiting with its pitcher of water. She wondered that there was no little creeping maid ready with the bedwarmer, deciding her uncle had probably told the servants not to bother the bedchamber unless asked.

She found the dressing screen in the far corner of the room by an enormous set of paned-glass windows, their curtains discreetly pulled. Slung over the patterned screen were a silken cream-colored nightgown and a sacque-robe of pale pink. As she dressed, she found herself trembling, forgetting how much she had missed succors such as comfortable clothes that fit. She had told herself she was impervious to the charms of material possessions, flim-flam such as clothes, but she had lied. When the sharp little rap on the door shook her, followed immediately by Jack entering, she was caught in the act of admiring her civilized reflection—it had been so long since she had actually seen herself in a mirror!

"Sorry," he muttered.

She said nothing, rather annoyed, pulling the sacque-robe more closely about her. When she turned, it was more graceful than she gave herself credit for, the pink skirt of the robe swirling across her bare ankles. He was holding his hands in the prayer-like gesture, palms against each other. She was momentarily distracted by contemplation of his hands; though they were still unsuitably tan, and he continued to wear his rings of dubious origin, she was rather mesmerized by how clean they were. So dirt did not magically appear upon his skin, she thought.

Jack was watching her, too, no doubt registering that the top of her nightgown peeped through the sacque-robe though she held it closed with very white fingers. Was he thinking, perhaps, of how beautiful she appeared in pink brocade?

"Jack?"

"Aye?" He dropped his hands from their praying pose to scratch behind his ear.

"Are you coming in or not? Perhaps you're not tired."

"I didn't think we were going t' sleep in the same room," Jack replied, rubbing his close-clipped beard. "Thought I might take the sofa in the hall an' await you tomorrow mornin'."

Without thinking, Elizabeth burst out, "Well, it's no trouble if you stay here—"

She shut her mouth in due haste, a slight blush turning into two red circles on her cheeks. Sparrow dropped his arm from the doorjamb, his round eyes betraying his surprise. Elizabeth looked away, settling onto the mattress of her four-poster bed. "I just thought it would look less suspicious to stay together, that was all I meant."

Jack was leering a little now, his hands playing with the pockets on his violent green waistcoat. " 'F I'm not mistaken, your uncle's purpose in having us in the same room was—"

"It's customary for a wife and husband to stay in the same room," she snapped, glaring at him, "not withstanding whether they intend to sleep in the same bed or not!"

Jack's leer intensified into a broad grin, showing his gold teeth; for a moment, he was entirely irrepressible pirate. Elizabeth's violently cold look changed his mind, however, before she slipped off her shoes and pulled the curtain down so he could no longer see her. "You're not likely to get much comfort in the sofa in the hall, you know—not once the servants discover you and squawk to my uncle. Our stay would be met with those awkward questions we so wished to avoid. Besides, I'd feel less . . . ill at ease," she mumbled from behind the curtain.

Jack remained where he was, gazing at the drawn curtain with an appreciative interest. "Well . . . all ri'," he said, taking a few steps forward.

The curtain flew open. "On the floor, if you please!"

"Of course," Jack said with elaborate sarcasm, turning on his heel and making for the chaise-lounge, off of which he grabbed two fat, stuffed Turkish pillows. "I'm jus' thinkin' o' me gold, Mrs. Turner," he reminded her curtly, "an' how I will enjoy every piece o' it, after all the trouble I've gone through to get it."

"Of course you'll get your gold. I just think we should stay close," Elizabeth maintained fiercely. "For our own protection, surely."

Jack threw up his hands at her, ignoring her as he hunkered down on the floor. "Then why's't implicit tha' I get t' sleep on the floor?"

"Because _I _am the lady." It was the sort of imperious tone Elizabeth used when determined to brook no refusal—it usually worked.

"Course, I forget."

Part of Elizabeth was utterly gleeful behind the curtain. She was able to boss around Captain Jack Sparrow with little more than a persuasive speech? She couldn't wait until the crew of the _Black Pearl _learned of Jack's cowed and useless state. "Oh, would you mind blowing out the candle?" she requested in her sweetest, sing-song voice.

After moments of silence and still the light behind the curtain was rosy and bright, she pulled the curtain away and regarded the prostrate shape of the pirate on the floor. He was snoring loudly. Elizabeth shrugged elegantly, climbing silently out of bed and over to the table, where the candle was flickering indolently. She glanced at Jack, his snoring but still shape covered in his silk coat. He was remarkably comfortable there on that floor, she thought, watching his face tilted upward on the Turkish pillows. His kicked-off boots were in a pile nearby with his stockings, and his bare feet were sprawled on the carpet lazily. She had to smile, a little, and not in mockery or bitterness.

_He must really want that gold to endure this, _she thought. But she checked herself, realizing with a sigh that there must be some other reason he was willing to put with her flippant and demeaning behavior. "I would rather not think about it," she said softly. Neither did she want to contemplate why she had wanted him near her, in the same room even, when aboard _Reine Charlotte _she hadn't trusted him in the crowded first mate's cabin. He stirred softly, disturbing his snoring. She gazed at him a moment longer, _just to look. _Not to think. She cupped her hand around the candle, watching the shadows that danced on the walls between her fingers, the tips glowing pink. She bent forward, blowing, and the light turned to darkness. She quietly padded back to the bed, pulling aside the curtain and dropping into the bedclothes.

She lay in bed silently, sprawled on her stomach with her head balanced on one arm, the other arm reached out futilely to the empty space on the bed. There was enough moonlight to illuminate the curtains, to splash a soft blue onto the unoccupied space beside her. She and Will hadn't been married long, but she sincerely missed the presence of his body in bed beside her. She missed his warmth, the malleable, soft entity of his flesh beside her. It was always the nights alone that would find her sobbing almost silently and without tears into her pillow. This was not possible in the crowded hammocks of the _Black Pearl _nor the anxiety-ridden hellhole of _Reine Charlotte. _She listened, forcing back her tears with effort, and heard nothing but Jack's snoring. _How even it is, _she mused.

She fell asleep almost immediately after, Jack's uncouth but comforting snores the last thing on her mind. She slept soundly through much of the night with only wisps of bad dreams to pull at her temples. But at last she awoke and was surprised but not shocked to find tears at the fringes of her eyelashes, though she could not remember any dream that prompted them. She was curled up and tangled within the knots of the bedclothes, clinging to her pillow with fingers white with yearning. As she rolled onto her back, trying to disengage her arms from the heavy coverlet, she wondered what in particular had wrested her from a sleep that had seemed so genuinely fearless. All around her was dark, supplemented by the barest sheen of the moon outside. She lay in bed silently, blinking into the dark, but it was only after several minutes that she heard a sound beyond her own thoughts.

She was frightened for a moment because the noise was obviously coming from the same room, and she had forgotten that she was not alone. The muted rustling, the soft but pained sounds, made her bolt upright in bed, unknowing. With a flutter, she remembered that Jack Sparrow had gone to sleep at the foot of the bed. She surmised, then, that the noises were coming from him. With a little hesitation, she threw back the curtain. She saw in the ample shadows on the wall that Jack's shape was indeed engaged in some nightmarish reverie. She surprised herself by striking a flint on her first try and lighting the wick of her bedside candle. The light leapt across the room. She dashed to the foot of the bed, her nut-brown hair streaming and enveloping her face. "No!" Jack was murmuring. She found him writhing on the floor, his black hair wild as his dark fingers gripped convulsively at the air. His eyes were closed, and though she knew his capacity for deception, she did not for a moment doubt this was a genuine nightmare.

She didn't think as she kneeled down beside him, watching his colorful face screwed up in pain as he gasped out "no, stop" in little painful pants. "Jack," she whispered hoarsely. "Jack!" His only answer was a guttural cry such as she had never heard uttered. She was so amazed, she sat there in shock, pale at the thought of what could so frighten and horrify a man as strong and cynical as Jack.

She felt a strange aversion to touching him. It wasn't the sweat streaming off his brow, it wasn't the glint of gold off his teeth as they twisted with his bottom lip between them. She felt terribly cold at the thought of laying her hands on him. "Jack!" she said, this time loudly. Her arms darted out almost involuntarily to grab him roughly by the shoulders. She gave him a violent shake, shouting "Jack!" almost into his face.

He gasped, a low rattling sound. His black-rimmed eyes flew open. He stared straight ahead, straight into her eyes. His black pupils were dilated. His face was so close to hers, their noses touched briefly. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek. His arms shot out and gripped her shoulders with a strength that almost crushed her. "Elizabeth!" he whispered hoarsely.

She smiled ever so slightly, glad in her heart he had called her by her name. "Yes, Jack," she whispered, "you've been dreaming. I . . . I tried to wake you . . ."

"What?" he asked, wild-eyed, dropping his arms from her.

She repeated her statement, and he pulled violently away. "You mus' never tell anyone about this, do ye hear?" he muttered coldly, his voice trembling, as he began to pull on his coat. She backed away slightly, staring limply at the rolled up sleeves of Tolby's shirt, exposing the tattoos and scars on Jack's arms. His waistcoat and cravat had long been discarded, revealing the top of his tanned chest. When she looked carefully at the back of his shirt, she could see one of the old welts rising from his shoulder to the back of his neck. She'd never before noticed that it was there.

He wouldn't look at her. She held out her hands uselessly, crouching on the floor. "This was a mistake," he said numbly, brushing past her.

"Jack, I don't understand," she said quietly.

He pulled on one boot over the leg of his trouser and turned to her. "You mus' never tell anyone about this! Can ye not understan' that?"

He pulled on the other boot, staring at her, his hair tangled and so dark against his unnaturally pale face. His cheekbones looked gaunt, hollow. "Well, all right," she murmured, backing away. She felt cold. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

"Swear it!" he snapped with dead calm. " 'Lizabeth, swear it!"

She couldn't abide his wild look. It was worse than suffering his inexplicable cries in the dark. For a moment, she was sincerely afraid—afraid of him. "I swear," she said, but her lips barely moved. He turned away, grunting in satisfaction, and moved toward the door. She found herself blocking his path. "Where are you going?"

He bared his teeth for a moment. She leaned against the door, covering the handle with her body. "I 'preciate your concern," he said, his words very controlled, but his delivery strained. "I 'preciate your concern, Mrs. Turner, but I really should not have been here in the first place, savvy?"

She stung at the fact he was calling her Mrs. Turner when only moments before it had been Elizabeth. But she saw that his hands were trembling, and his lip was twitching under his moustache. "Jack, it's all right . . . I'm not going to tell anyone, I'm not going to do . . . anything." His rolled-up shirt cuff was bright in the moonlight. She trembled, looking at him, wishing he would let her help him. "I just want to be certain that you're not going to do something . . . regrettable . . ."

"Kind o' ye, Mrs. Turner," he said with extreme coldness, "but I don' wan' ye t' be wastin' your precious, aris'ocratic kindness on Jack bloody Sparrow." His whole face was twitching; his speech crackled with bitterness. He grabbed her roughly by the elbow and moved her from the door.

She was about to protest when he shouted at her, "I am not your husband, do ye understan'! I am not your Will Turner, to boss and coddle wit'! Leave me the hell _alone!" _

She raised her hand and slapped him hard across the face. It was the first time she'd ever actually succeeded in slapping him, though she'd tried many a time previously. She had failed before either because he had anticipated her or because she had not really meant to inflict harm. This time, she truly wanted to hurt him. If she hadn't been so surprised that her hand had really come into contact with his face, she would have kept pummeling. Instead, she dropped her hand in shock, staring.

The sound of her hand colliding with first his nose, then his cheekbone, crackled in her ears for a long time. It was such a crisp, horrific sound that she couldn't contain her surprise. He looked back at her with dull, uncomprehending eyes. Her hand had made a pink imprint on his cheek, though the heel of her hand had left a vivid white mark she almost knew was going to turn into a bruise.

He didn't shake his head or make a pained, witty response. He said nothing. For a moment, she thought he was going to hit her back. But he didn't. He calmly turned around, opened the door, and walked away.

She didn't know where he went after he left her that night. She had expected to see him at breakfast, and she would have been happy to apologize—happy to say anything so that he might speak to her once again without loathing. But she was informed he had gone out early with her uncle's valet to the tailor's in order to obtain new clothes. Soon enough, she too was swept up by the party of her cousin Mary, who was married and in town only for the fortnight, to the dressmaker's.

Long before, Elizabeth had realized the only way to stay sane while being measured for this or that gown or robe was to think about something else. She hated being prodded by the seamstress with little pins, her bosom being hefted this way and that to fit into tightly-laced stays or, worse, corsets. So, as she was being fitted for a ball gown for the assembly that night, she asked herself what could have possibly inspired Jack's nightmare?

She considered: the first time he'd been marooned on the island, he could not have immediately found the rum runners' cache. He had been there three days, he had said; perhaps he had gone slightly mad with the heat before he had found the rum, and the dream was recalling such a condition.

Jack was already mad, she decided, and nothing had ever possessed him to act like that before. With a shiver, she wondered if he could be recalling the circumstances in which he had received those lashes on his back. A hot day in a Jamaica plantation—or else tied to the mast of some ship . . . She grimaced to think about it. But Jack was too hard of a man to cry out, she decided. Were he being whipped by the Devil himself, she imagined Jack staying in a state of grim silence, except for an occasional joke with his tormenter. What, then, could hurt him so deeply? She could not guess, and it would be a great while before she would know.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter VII.

"For genteel young women, it was a heady experience to dance, to be admired, and, no doubt to whisper with friends over the merits of particular gentlemen." --_Daily Life in the 18th Century _

Elizabeth stumbled a bit as she began descending the stairs. She was clearly not as prepared for all that real court dress represented as she had believed. The day spent at the seamstress's, though she finally decided to borrow a magnificent ball gown from her cousin Mary, was exhausting. She did not particularly want to be descending a perilous staircase on her way to an assembly ball. She was feeling rather piqued, to tell the truth. She had forced the maid to lace her corset up loosely, but her breathing was still restricted. And the panniers! Nothing, she was convinced, was designed to make a woman feel more ridiculous than blasted panniers! She felt like she had two small sloops attached to her hips.

She was therefore grumbling and stumbling her way down the fine, if not terribly helpful to a stumbling woman, staircase in her uncle's home, and did not think what a lovely picture she made nonetheless. The gown was of old gold-cloth, quite heavy it must be said, but the pale and restrained color, heightened by the simple embroidery in green and crimson thread, suited her more than she could have guessed. Her hair was pomaded and slightly powdered and bound with the jewels she had borrowed from her late aunt, through the suggestion, again, of Mary; another ring of pearls surrounded the flushed skin of her throat, but there was no other decoration save the plain gold wedding band on her hand.

It was Jack Sparrow alone who recognized what a stunning picture she made at that moment, for he was one waiting at the foot of the stairs to receive her. It wasn't until Elizabeth had reached the ninth stair when she realized she was being watched, and that knowledge caused her grumbling and stumbling to increase. They hadn't seen each other or spoken since the night before, and both seemed determined to forget everything that had happened then. "These ridiculous things they expect us to wear . . .!" she exclaimed nervously, tripping over the tenth stair. "I am so overjoyed that my father saw fit to raise me in the Indies where such trifles are—ah—" (she bumped into the banister, painfully) "—inconvenient, as they should be . . ."

He hadn't said anything, he was still standing in the same position. This, of course, made her more nervous. Was he still angry with her? She searched his face for an answer. "I mean, you probably don't mind it so much because _you _don't have to wear one . . . a corset, I mean . . . or panniers . . . ghastly things . . ."

At the second-to-last step, Jack interrupted her wayward meanderings with a quiet, " 'Lizabeth

. . . you look . . ."

Elizabeth stopped, finally registering that the blank look on his face was not indifference but rather something approaching astonishment. "Yes?" she asked, waiting anxiously for a reply that—that—

". . . you look . . . tall."

"Tall?" she repeated, nonplussed, gripping the banister.

"Aye, tall," said Jack, looking at her brightly, probably earnestly. "Di' ye get new shoes? You look very tall."

She looked down. The wide skirts of her gown completely obscured her shoes (which _were, _if she were honest with herself, new and _were _rather high-heeled). She had to admit to herself he could have said a thousand things worse, but this still struck her as particularly unfeeling. With a disappointment she could hardly explain, she said, "Yes, they are new. How kind of you to notice."

She held out her hand, expecting him to help her down the last stair. He smiled at her, then glanced at her hand. She waved it frantically, and at last he sprang brokenly forward to take it.

"Imbecile," she muttered under her breath. She couldn't help it.

When he had helped her down, he immediately turned and asked, "Now, how do _I _look, Mrs. Turner?"

She raised one eyebrow. It was difficult for her, and she suspected anyone who had known Jack to any degree, to reconcile the precision she saw before her with the disarray of only a few days' before. Her uncle's valet was gifted, that much was clear. The dark blue of Jack's coat and trousers suited him much better than the violent colors he had arrived in, and she noticed with satisfaction he was holding his grizzled old hat under his arm in a gentlemanly manner. The curled and pomaded wig was magnificent to be sure, but she found she much preferred the wildness of his own wind-woven hair. With the bath and scented attars—and the rare occasions his look became pensive and grave instead of lopsided and bug-eyed—she could have easily mistaken him for a Spanish gentleman of the Estuarial rather than a scallywag artificially pomaded and paraded in a borrowed suit.

But the disappointment he had quite unknowingly wrought with his last few words embittered her, and all she said was, "You look tall. The new shoes, I imagine?"

He frowned at her in response as she floated haughtily by. "Come along," she said coldly. "We don't want to be late for the assembly."

"Hear me, 'Lizabeth," Jack said, just as coldly, though barely disguising his anger as he squeezed and twisted his new pair of gloves. As they proceeded forward toward the doors, he leaned in to keep his voice low. "You haven't changed me mind in any way: you promised me gold, and I've so far seen naught. An' I ain't going to hold out for it much longer, savvy?"

If he was going to say more—he probably was; he was clearly annoyed—he was prevented by the appearance of Elizabeth's uncle. He was dressed in dark green, richly attired, and looked quite the baronet that he was. "Oh, there you young people are!" he exclaimed in his rumbling bass.

Elizabeth gave a final condescending look to Jack, who gripped his gloves more tightly, and she curtseyed as deeply as the panniers would allow. "Uncle."

Sparrow, not to be outdone, glared at Elizabeth and executed a perfect courtly bow. Clearly his grace was a natural, if sometimes twisted, attribute. Swann was obviously impressed, giving the pirate a curt but satisfied nod of acknowledgement. His niece and her "husband" merely glared at each other. Half in earnest, half in nervous agitation, Swann said, "You do make a smart pair, you two . . ." When there was no reply, Swann tactfully noticed that the carriage was waiting outside, and the party climbed in.

The ride to the assembly was brief and nearly silent, as neither Sparrow nor Elizabeth had anything to say. Elizabeth did manage a half-hissed, "Now, Jack, I want you to try _very _hard to blend in and not make a spectacle of yourself." As it was, she could hardly sit down because of her costume—which was already causing sores and pain on her abdomen—and had to take up an entire seat of the carriage while the two gentlemen sat opposite her. She and the pirate avoided each other's gaze, obviously still testy about the last night's remarks, though she thought she once perceived him staring at her silver-buckled shoes that had caused such a conflict earlier. It was dark—nine o'clock—and so nothing much was to be seen outside until they reached the assembly rooms, which were lit from within by a hundred candles.

The hall bustled with light, both from the candles and reflected off a dozen surfaces—gowns embroidered with gold and diamonds, ropes of pearls and sapphires, filigree candelabras and snuff boxes—and only Baronet Swann could be said to be at his ease. Elizabeth observed, as they were quietly making their way in, that Jack wore a completely astonished look, as if he had never encountered a wisp of the opulence before them in the drawing room. (This was not entirely accurate, as she was sure the pirate swag he had plundered was at least equal to this fanciful display.) Elizabeth saw his expression change from furrow-browed worry to an inspiring kind of determination, as if the assembly room itself was a giant foe he was willing to take on single-handedly. She saw his twitching fingers reach for his pistol belt—obviously he found no pistol nor cutlass with which to defend himself. She knew he was carrying a knife inside the lining of his waistcoat—they had had a bitter argument over this—and probably would be carrying another in his boot were he wearing boots. She looked down. He was _not _wearing boots but high shoes and silk stockings. She wondered what the crew of the _Black Pearl _would have to say about that and chuckled to herself.

"What exactly is so amusin'?" Jack whispered to her. His voice was taut as she expected it might be in a battle where he did not know his adversary.

"Nothing," said Elizabeth gravely, and fortunately he did not press the point.

As they came into the main hall, they were ambushed by people, and the rituals of bowing and curtseying began. Elizabeth could no longer pretend that she felt any differently than Jack did—even Port Royal's most elegant ceremonies seemed positively primeval in comparison to this avalanche of society. She supposed that was why she was still holding Jack's hand which he had offered indifferently as she had staggered out of the carriage. She noted he had not seen fit to pull away from her yet, and she found, however imbecilic and dispiritedly little-minded she had recently found him, she did not want to leave his side. Even in a London assembly room, Jack Sparrow seemed the safest man to follow.

She was aware that her uncle had stopped and was speaking to a short, rotund woman of about forty in an immodest pink gown. However atrocious her attire seemed, she appeared to have a kind, inquisitive face. "May I present my niece Elizabeth—daughter of my brother Weatherby—and her husband, Mr. Turner." Elizabeth and Jack sank solemnly as if on cue. "This is Lady Hamilton who gives lovely suppers from her house in Fleet Street."

Lady Hamilton demurred and immediately began in a labored, somewhat masculine voice, "My youngest son is in the Navy—I understand there was much contact with the Navy in the colony."

Elizabeth watched, a little disturbed, as her uncle excused himself. "That is so, ma'am."

"Well, I have never been to the West Indies," Lady Hamilton said, batting her fan. "Tell me, how is it in Jamaica Colony?"

"A native Londoner might think our ways quaint—"

"Hot."

Elizabeth blinked, while Lady Hamilton made a sound rather like a hiccup. Jack had interjected the bored monosyllable, looking down at Lady Hamilton as if she were his maiden aunt. Elizabeth was about to profusely apologize—meanwhile resisting the urge to stomp soundly on Jack's foot—when Lady Hamilton moved in closer to the pirate and inquired. "Mr. Turner, is it? You are the one, are you not, who owns the tobacco plantations in Virginia?"

"Tobacco. Virginia. Aye."

Elizabeth was really on the verge of smacking him with her fan, but to her horror, Lady Hamilton laughed, a burring, hiccupy sound. "What a wonderful 'turn' of phrase you have there, Mr. Turner!"

Jack smiled ever so slightly, warming to the compliment if not the pun. "I am much obliged, milady."

Before Lady Hamilton could reply, however, a man of the same build and shuffling quality appeared from the fringes, bowing low to Elizabeth. She quickly recognized him as Joseph Tolby, the man of quality they had seen upon first arriving in the city. In the bright candlelight of the assembly room, his heavy, incisive brow and lugubrious, lumbering posture, were more pronounced, but his smile was warming and genuine. "A thousand apologies, Lady Hamilton," he said, eyeing the matron with good-natured trepidation.

"Ah yes," said Lady Hamilton, rather dryly. "Mr. and Mrs. Turner, have you met my nephew Joseph Tolby?"

"Permit me, Aunt," said the young man, still looking at Elizabeth, "but we have seen a little of each other, yes."

Elizabeth, a little flustered at the obvious attention and feeling strangely cornered, sank into another curtsy—oh, her thighs! She was going to fall over—and said, "You do us too much honor, Mr. Tolby—"

"It is you of whom I must ask the honor," continued the bright-faced gentleman. "That gown is positively becoming, Mrs. Turner."

"Thank you, we mean to return what you so generously lent us—"

"Think nothing of it," Tolby waved away airily, with almost too much impatience. "Would you join me in the first dance of the evening, Mrs. Turner?" For the first time he appeared to see Jack. "With your husband's leave, of course."

Elizabeth observed that Jack merely shrugged, if he did that much. He had never looked so completely blank, even when passed out dead-drunk. Though she felt some unease connected with Tolby that she could not quite explain, she was wearied exquisitely by Jack's behavior. _She _intended to have a little diversion while she was there! She let go of his hand and accepted Tolby's offer. She excused herself from Lady Hamilton, and on a sudden impulse whispered harshly to Jack as he passed, "Stay where we can see each other."

She missed the rude face that Jack made in her wake, but it is true he did attempt to move closer to the dancing floor. Fortunately the slow and sedate minuet made it comparatively easy to watch the assembly crowd while paying enough attention to the dance so as not to look foolish. When her father had sent for a dancing master upon her fifteenth birthday, Elizabeth had briefly taken something of a passion for her lessons—probably because they were one of the few respites from embroidery, or reading Latin, both of which were considerably boring in her opinion. (Even dancing, however, was second-best to paying a ha'penny to the harbor master for the latest pirate broadsides, either in print or from the man's own tongue.) She mused rather sardonically that Jack had been persuaded to wear shapely silk stockings—but had insisted on his refusal to learn to dance. She had to admit he might have looked rather silly because of the peculiar way he walked; then again . . .

A small crowd had gathered around the pirate, composed mostly of young females, half-hidden behind their fans. Jack was slowly losing his look of utter boredom. She could see that he appeared to be answering questions asked one by one from the overwhelmingly feminine crowd when she and her partner switched places in the dance, she was able to hear a squat woman observe, "The Indies certainly have given you color, Mr. Turner."

What Jack's reply must have been she had no way of knowing. She was anxious for the minuet to end and noticed that someone else appeared to have taken an interest in Jack. Not another young lady, but an older, rather craven-looking gentleman—well, she was not entirely sure whether she could refer to him as a gentleman. He was dressed completely in a black coat, trousers, waistcoat, and stockings—an ensemble that must have looked dashing when new—but did no longer. He was a stooped, darkly-colored individual with a certain coarseness of features and a low, brutish brow. He wore a thick white periwig and seemed to be clutching a metallic object in one hand. A strange personage to be sure, but when Elizabeth had completed one of her turns in the dance, the man had disappeared completely into the crowd. She was impatient enough to end the dance that she allowed the odd encounter to slip to the back of her mind, and when at last she was able to execute a final curtsy, she almost rudely disregarded Tolby's attempts at conversation in order to breach the barrier between herself and Sparrow.

When she reached Jack, a footman, splendidly-liveried, had just come by with small flutes of champagne, offered to the assembled crowd. Jack had plucked up two glasses, tasting one with a foul expression. As Elizabeth edged her way into the crowd—not easy because of the panniers—Jack finished off the first glass of champagne and started on the second.

A few of the ladies around Sparrow had dispersed, heading to the floor for the next dance. "You didn't tell me they'd ha' drinks," Jack murmured to Elizabeth in a warm and unaffected voice.

"Just see that you don't drink too much," Elizabeth hissed, looking at him covertly.

"My dear little _wife," _said Jack, grinning lopsidedly at her—he was clearly enjoying this—"when have I ever drank—drunk—drunken—dranken—druh—druh—" She watched him in incredulity as he peered at his bejeweled fingers as he sorted out his verb conjugations, several ladies twittering as they moved by. Finally Jack threw down his hands with an elegant look—"_consumed _too much alcohol, hmm?" She winced, almost as much at the gold teeth he was revealing as at the fact he was referring to their experience on the rum-runners' island—an event _not _to be explained in public. Anything more that might be said was dashed when a grossly rotund gentleman hailed Jack from across the room. Jack started toward him without a look at Elizabeth, taking another glass of champagne as he passed. She swore under her breath, knowing for certain he would soon give them both away. She watched in despair as he crossed the room with his swaying walk, certain to bring suspicion into anyone's mind.

Her anxiety and fury caused her to lose her breath, and she stumbled a little—right into Lady Hamilton. Elizabeth apologized profusely, bringing out her fan in accordance with the matron's advice. "Dear me, child! Have a care, there."

"Forgive me, Lady Hamilton."

"I suppose it's true that a hotter climate creates better bonds between relations: you must be very close to your husband," observed Lady Hamilton after offering her handkerchief to Elizabeth.

"Er—yes," the young woman replied.

"You certainly keep a close watch over him."

Elizabeth winced again—her attention to preventing Jack from revealing himself had been noticed. "I—"

"It's all right," said Lady Hamilton, leaning in conspiratorially. "I know!"

"You . . . know?"

"That Mr. Turner is really the son of a Spanish don! Of course. I have keen eyes and good ears, you understand, Mrs. Turner."

Elizabeth blinked. Did Lady Hamilton seriously believe the half-crazed pirate was a Spanish prince? _This is descending to the level of farce, _she thought. "Oh . . . well! Just . . . see that you tell . . . no one."

Lady Hamilton looked mightily offended. "I am as silent as the grave!"

At that moment, a loud, shrill sound escaped the group across the room, mostly female, that was ever circling Jack. If he knew anything at all, Elizabeth thought weakly, he'd know _now _was the time to be on his guard, now was the time for the cleverness and instinct that had kept him alive thus far. But Captain Jack Sparrow, the hangman's most elusive quarry, had a ridiculous weakness for a pair of pretty eyes—_any but mine, _a rebellious voice inside Elizabeth exclaimed in cutting bitterness. "Bloody pirate," she muttered venomously.

"What was that?" asked Lady Hamilton, wide-eyed.

Elizabeth did not dare reply, but another loud sound of mingled giggles and laughter answered for her. She wished to elude Lady Hamilton, who was now studying her intently, but could hardly follow the crowd enveloping her "husband." "Lady Hamilton," she asked suddenly, "would you care for some champagne?"

The matron waved her hand airily, and Elizabeth sought out the servant who carried the champagne. This of course brought her closer to Jack, and she merely pretended to sip the champagne.

". . . and we would scarcely be living now if we ha' not escaped the clutches o' the fearsome scallywag Barbossa . . ."

Elizabeth needed to hear no more; her plan was doomed. She wondered if she could slip out quietly now, unnoticed, plead her dilemma to her uncle, and throw herself on his mercy. _But where would that leave Jack? _asked the same rebellious voice.

Oh, a plague on Jack! she answered herself. He got himself into this débacle!

_But he agreed to this plan when the benefits are very much in your favor. Would you really leave him to be arrested, hung, and displayed on the river?_

Elizabeth sighed and began marching—well, more like lurching; her "fine, tall" shoes had already given her blisters—towards Jack to persuade him to shut up. As she did, she caught his eye. He paused a moment in telling his story—"We would ha' both likely been sacrificed on the altar o' heathen gods if not for Ca'tain Jack Sparrow"—but then went on with more vigor.

Just as she began elbowing through the crowd with great unladylike shoves of her panniers, Jack turned to meet the next fine lord of the assembly—--

-----and found himself face-to-face with Commodore Norrington. Elizabeth gasped. The two men stood very still. They looked at each other for a long, long moment. The Commodore wore black and silver, but it was a Navy uniform nonetheless. Elizabeth strained, opening her mouth to scream something—anything—

"Surely, Mr. Turner, you know the Commodore?" asked one of the few men in the group around Jack. "He was stationed at Port Royal . . ." The women around gave this unfortunate gentleman a sharp look, and he ceased speaking.

"Mr. Turner," Commodore Norrington repeated dubiously. He and Jack stared.

"Commodore, you must recall the lovely _Mrs. _Turner," said Jack quietly. Any measure of giddiness the champagne had produced was gone. Elizabeth allowed herself to breathe.

Norrington turned his head ever so slightly towards her—so imperceptibly that she wasn't certain he had even seen her. "Mrs. Turner," he repeated slowly. The crowd around him tittered wonderingly.

"We 'ave missed seeing you in the Caribbean, sir," Jack went on, with a very peculiar grin on his face (to Elizabeth's chagrin, at least one good tooth was visible). "I'm afraid law enforcement in Port Royal 'as deteriorated since you las' graced us wi' your presence." The Commodore stared, clearly startled and curious. "Tell me, for I would dearly like to know, 'ave you gotten any closer to finding that rogue Captain Jack Sparrow?"

Elizabeth did the only logical thing she could do in such a situation—she fainted.

As she hit the ground, Elizabeth heard a number of people gathering around her, Lady Hamilton chiefly among them. She heard the matron say, "Must have laced her corset too tight, poor child."

A time passed, and Elizabeth felt her limp body being propped up, a dozen handkerchiefs being applied to her face. Above the din, however, Norrington said sharply, "Shouldn't you attend to your _wife_, sir?"

"My wife? Oh yes, me wife."

The next thing Elizabeth knew, she was being lifted bodily from the ground, to the awe of the bystanders. Finding her panniers too difficult to contend with, Jack threw her over one shoulder to carry her, despite the loud chatter and clambering surrounding them. Elizabeth could only conclude that he didn't realize she was feigning, for the urgency with which he shouted, "Move! Move! Get out o' my way!" was genuine enough. To her surprise, however, he did not set her down but kept her firmly in his arms as he ploughed through the crowd. "Where is the carriage?" he demanded loudly. "Take me t'the bloody carriage!"

Elizabeth supposed this whole event would have been romantic had she really fallen into a swoon, but as it was, she was only vaguely amused—and fairly uncomfortable. That is, until Jack found the carriage, spat at the driver, "Get on wi' it! Take us to the 'ouse!", and laid her down on the cushions. That was when he began attempting to peel off her bodice.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter VIII.

"A woman's heart is such a complex problem—the owner thereof is often most incompetent to find the solution of this puzzle." --Baroness Orczy, _The Scarlet Pimpernel _

Elizabeth leapt away across the carriage, submerging them both in a cascade of gold-cloth. "What are you doing!"

When she caught sight of Jack, he was in shock, his wide bug eyes as round as coins. She really had succeeded in fooling him! She saw the understanding dawn, and that remarkable surprise gave way to anger. "Saving yer life!" he answered her question.

"Idiot!" she blurted, still furious that he'd tried to undress her. Dragging her skirts and panniers, the carriage bumping them rudely, she explained, "I was only pretending! To get _you _away from Norrington!"

He rounded on her, his dark brows contracting in rage. "How was I t'know you was pretending? One moment, s' Commodore in me face—the next, he's sayin' me wife's fainted." He gestured expansively with his hands, and she noticed they were trembling. "When a woman swoons, ye assume—"

"Well, you should have been _thinking!" _ Elizabeth spat, covering the top of her bodice with her hand, trying to lace it back up. "But, no," she narrowed her eyes at him, "you were too busy giving us away, too busy trying to fill your bed—"

He shoved the wide swaths of cloth that separated them, forcing her near him. She could see a line developing in his forehead, the veins beside his temples straining. He wrenched off his pomaded wig and tossed it across the seat angrily. "My _bed_ should be no concern o' yours, I should think. An' I have spent the last months doin' nothing but wha' you've asked me t' do." His voice was low, louder than it would have been at any other time in the day—the streets of London reached some measure of quiet by midnight. She felt her anger lessening. Why did she care which of those women he seduced?

"But why didn't you listen to me?" Elizabeth replied in a pleading tone, her hands in fists. "I told you to blend in, to stay in the background." He looked past her, out the window. The carriage had stopped. "Now the whole of bloody London thinks you're a Spanish prince!"

He had been in the process of wrenching open the door and walking up the dark alley to Swann's house. He turned on her with surprise and pleasure in his glance. "A Spanish prince! I do like the sound o' tha'!" She watched him touch his mustachio unconsciously.

She quickly followed, nearly falling from the carriage as she limped away unassisted. What few people were walking the streets stared at the spectacle. It was heading onto one in the morning, and there were still a few vagrants about, though in Pall Mall it was significantly less lively than elsewhere. The inside of Swann's house was dark and quiet. A single servant came out of the darkness with a candle. "I should never have done this," Elizabeth said, fighting to keep up with Jack as he strode along. "I should never have—"

Jack glanced over his shoulder at her, ugly as a scar. "Now tha's the first bit o' sense I've heard you—"

"—I should never have trusted _you_ to act like a _gentleman_!" Her voice was louder than she had meant it to be, and in the nearly silent house, almost a shout. The footman was cupping the candle, shrinking back, as a maidservant appeared with a candle of her own.

"In tha' case, I won' act like one," said Jack coldly. He nodded curtly to the trembling maid, who handed him her candle. He began to mount the staircase. "Think you can make a fool o' Jack Sparrow, think you can cheat him out o' his—"

Elizabeth looked at the servant maid, who hadn't retreated yet—both she and the footman were staring curiously at Elizabeth. She could imagine their wagging tongues, first in the servants' quarters, then above-stairs to her uncle's valet, then to her uncle himself. Already Jack had made himself highly visible; it wouldn't take a great mind to realize the truth. "Please, the servants will hear!"

Jack seized the banister with a hand that was shaking so badly Elizabeth instantly regretted her too-prim words. "Fuck the sodding servants," he roared, "and fuck you!"

Elizabeth felt the blood draining from her face. The first foot she had placed on the staircase came slipping down. She didn't have to look at Jack's eyes to know how full of hatred he was. She'd heard such rough talk from seaman and pirates before, Jack's own crew, but he had never addressed it to _her_. Her head slowly fell down against her chest, her tall beauty crumpled in shock and hurt, her eyelashes suddenly tinged with tears she hadn't meant for him to see.

Because her head was down, she didn't see him turn around, gaze at her sadly as if in repentance, and then turn away. She heard him ascend the stairs far ahead of her. When she looked up, he disappeared toward their chamber, his head bowed.

"Please, ma'am." The servant maid was at her elbow. Elizabeth looked at her absently; the house was suddenly alight as more servants were roused. She heard Jack's steps pause. "But there's a gentleman at the door. Commodore Norrington—"

Elizabeth's hand slipped off the banister. She couldn't believe her own ears. How could the night have gone so terribly wrong? She'd been dancing with Tolby, acting very respectably, and then Jack—_stupid _Jack—had made a spectacle of himself, so much so that he'd been seen and recognized by James Norrington. And now Norrington was at their door—to confirm to his own satisfaction what he'd seen. She would have no recourse but to turn him away. He would still have his suspicions, but maybe it would give her time to fabricate . . . something— She turned toward the maid.

"Show him in." It was Jack's voice, steely hard, from above her. He had walked across the landing and was looking down at the maid menacingly.

Elizabeth was breathless with shock. "What?"

"The parlor might be best."

The maid looked helplessly at Jack and Elizabeth, then ran to do as Jack had bid her. Elizabeth mounted the stairs weakly. "Why did you do that?" she asked, her voice soft with disbelief. "You'll have ruined _everything._"

"Couldn't resist, love." The words were mocking but sad, too, sad in the way they had been when Elizabeth had asked about the miniature of his mother.

She looked down, attempting to form a logical reply that would somehow communicate her disappointment in him, her anger at what he'd done, and overall how wretched she felt. But all she could see was the way he'd smiled, surrounded by those empty-headed bobblebrains in the assembly room. _She was jealous_. Ever since Jack had laid an affectionate hand on AnaMaria, she'd been carrying this festering bile, and it finally exploded on the surface as a bitter, bitter canker. "You don't seem to be able to resist any form of temptation!"

Jack looked at her in surprise and took a few steps down the stairs. "I'm so far resistin' the temptation t' hit you upside the head, 'Lizabeth."

She acted as if she hadn't heard him. "A whoremonger offshore and on, isn't that right?"

His look became the blank one that recalled her slapping him the night before. " 'F I was such a whoremonger, would I have left _you _alone as I have? Ah, but wait," he said, an intensely hurtful phrase on the tip of his tongue, "you're not attractive or charming enough t' warrant any _real_ man's attentions—"

The tears finally fell down her cheeks in earnest. She couldn't believe, _couldn't, _that he had actually said that. Was she really so hideous? She must be! With one last valiant effort at self-respect, she cried, "You didn't think of me that way on the island--!"

And her mind went back to a conversation long buried in her happy memories of Will . . .

A few days after they had announced their engagement, she'd gone to meet her fiancé at the forge. Mr. Brown was predictably dead-drunk in the chair, and it had given Elizabeth and Will one of their rare moments to spend alone.

"Elizabeth," Will had said sweetly, "I would like to ask you something, and I'd like you to tell me the truth."

She had looked down at her hands, then back into his questioning face, his delicate dark eyes. "Of course, I will tell you the truth about anything. You know that."

He had never before had trouble meeting her gaze. "Yes, I know, but I must ask you plainly. You must not think that I don't trust you, that I don't love you."

Elizabeth fixed him with a baffled, slightly hurt look. "What are you saying, Will?"

"On that island." His words dropped like lead, ponderously slow. "I know something happened between you and Jack." He swallowed. "On that island." She was outraged, scandalized, tutting at her skirts which were dirty on the smithy floor. "Please tell me the truth," Will said.

His eyes were soft and compelling. She cleared her throat. He offered her his hand. "A trifle, really, Will," she said, trying to laugh. "If you think it more than that, I _will _think you passionately jealous, and that you _don't _trust me." He smiled at her, anxious, sad. She winced. "As . . . as you recall, when Jack—Captain Sparrow—and I were trapped on the island, I decided right away to create a signal fire with the rum. I knew Jack could never be persuaded to agree to use the rum in such a way, so I knew I would have to get him drunk."

"Hardly difficult, I'm sure," Will commented drily.

"However true that may be, I beg to remind you that I had to remain covert about my intentions and in so doing, take some of the rum myself." Will looked faintly amused, faintly reproving. "Finally, Jack fell into a drunken stupor, and I could put my plan into action. I debated," she told Will, "about when I should set the rum on fire. I finally decided dawn was best, as I was uncertain whether the _Dauntless _would be moored for the night and so miss the signal. Still, I didn't want to risk waking Jack up.

"So, I waited calmly after he collapsed to make sure he was really certain not to wake up." (She did not tell Will that she had spent the time sipping from the rum bottle still in her hand. She did not think he had ever tasted rum—neither had she until that day—and so would not understand the warm feeling it had left behind as it slid into her stomach, the almost toxic tart it had upon first swallow, which slowly mellowed.)

"I took another turn about the island—" (following the trail her feet had made previously in the sand) "—but found myself quickly returning to the fire. It was cold in the night air. I built the fire up," (adding her half-empty rum bottle to the pile). "Jack was still sprawled there on the sand. I sat by the fire, and I became increasingly worried that he wasn't breathing—that perhaps, this time, dead-drunk really meant dead." She smiled guiltily. "So I took a few cautious steps toward him, bruising my feet on conch shells—they were all over that island . . ." She unconsciously reached down toward her feet and then stopped herself. "When I was standing over him, I shoved one of my feet against his chest, receiving no response.

"Carefully, I bent down—wary of getting too close to him, he might be tricking me into doing something indecorous—but I was still not convinced he was breathing. I put my head on his chest to make sure he was breathing." Will cleared his throat. "He was, so I got back up." She didn't tell Will how harsh the cloth of Jack's shirt had been against her face, all the sand granules which quickly became caught in her wildly unbound hair. How warm his body had been against her skin. She stayed a moment longer than she would have had Will believe; Jack's heartbeat was so steady, and she wondered if _she_ could be so easily conquered by drink: to forget all the worries and certainties that they were to die together. She envied his peace.

"The night wore on. I worked to move some of the cases of rum from the cache. It got very cold. I was sleepy. The rum, too, must have taken its toll. I decided that a short nap would do me good—an hour at most. Then I'd proceed with my plan. When I sunk down between where Jack lay and the fire, I dug up a conch shell from the sand and placed it next to me, so that I'd roll over onto it and wake up."

"There have been better plans," Will interjected ruefully.

Elizabeth glared at him. "Well, I _was _almost asleep—it's amazing I _had_ that much foresight!" She fell asleep. When she woke, there were two things she noticed immediately. One was that when she opened her eyes, she saw that the stars were gone, and that the sky was a pale purple. "It was nearly dawn. I saw that the fire had been reduced to a few flickers. I knew I had to get up, had to add the rum immediately, or we would be stuck on the island for sure." But she was so comfortable, so warm . . . no sign of the conch shell at all. "Then I realized that while asleep, Jack had . . ." She tried not to be embarrassed, there was nothing to be embarrassed about. ". . . rolled over onto his side and laced his arms around me." Will was looking down darkly. This irritated her slightly.

"He was still deep asleep." He had given a loud belch into her face. "Thanks, Jack," she had muttered. His arms were warm around her, his hair lightly brushing her cheek . . .

"I had to exercise extreme caution in extricating myself: I couldn't run the risk of waking him." Will's eyebrow quirked. "I began to inch my way out of his arms. I slowly pulled my body downwards." (As she wriggled, she had felt the bulge of the conch shell against her thigh—Oh. Well. That wasn't the conch shell.) "When the top of my head was passing through his arms, he moved in his sleep and . . ." She threw her shoulders back defiantly. ". . . he took me by the chin, and dragged me back up beside him."

Will was fidgeting anxiously, looking fearful. "Elizabeth . . ."

"Only listen," she snapped. Her body was pressed quite improperly against his, his hands were in her hair, his slightly damp lips were against her throat: "I was prepared to pull violently away, though to wake him would be to doom the plan. But . . . he moved again—" rubbing her hair between his hands, murmuring softly in some predictably delightful dream "—and clamped his hands on my face." She spoke as rapidly as she dared. "Hekissedme." Will trembled a little. "It was over quickly enough. I pulled away, he fell back to sleep in a heap on the sand. I worked hard to pull the rum up from the cache and drag the last cinders of the fire into life."

She looked at her fiancé, who had waxed into silence. "I'm sure Jack doesn't even remember," she said softly. "He was dreaming and—and—and I _happened_ to be there. Had I been anyone else—perhaps even if I'd been a man—I'm sure it still would have happened." She touched Will's shoulder. "Will, there's nothing between Jack and I."

He looked up at her, and briefly there was a flicker of distrust in his eyes. But then he smiled, and it was the sweetest smile that had ever crossed his face. "Of course not. But you see, I had to ask—I had to know—" Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something. "I confess to a little jealousy, I admit, because he was the first to kiss you, but . . ."

"It didn't mean anything," Elizabeth insisted, her hand forming a fist. "I'm sure if he was sober and he kissed someone, it wouldn't mean anything then, either." Will looked at her curiously. "Oh, Will, let's forget this nonsense! I'm quite heartsick of talking of it. Why waste our time on meaningless chatter?" She kissed him gently on the temple. He slowly responded to her kisses, their mouths meeting, and their passions might have overtaken them had Mr. Brown not sputtered into life.

And Will, bless him, had said no more during the entirety of their betrothal, and marriage, about the island, and Elizabeth had not mentioned it to a single soul since.

Until this moment.

All of this had passed through her mind in no more than a few moments. She was aware that she was staring past Jack, her cheeks still damp, and was certain she had never felt more pain. Jack was looking at her, his eyes as mysterious as the first day she had seen them. "What do you mean," he breathed, "the island?"

She turned away, part of her wanting him to remember, part of her _daring _him to remember. _You wanted me once, didn't you? If only for a moment, a fleeting second, you wanted _me! She had not told Will that though a pirate had kissed her—one who was filthy, unshaven, smelled of alcohol and old leather—she had not wanted him to stop. The kiss was slight, like the touch of a bird's wing, but it had never left her. She'd had to swig a gulp of rum to forget how he had tasted to her, he had been that vivid: the rum, salt, and something like cinnamon. When he had let her go, she had seen his eyes open ever so briefly: he had looked at her, and there was the briefest flicker of cognizance in him before he fell away.

Bitterness and jealousy filled her. "You don't remember," she told him. "You were drunk. You were asleep."

She made to climb the stairs, heedless of him. "I remember waking briefly, 'fore you set the rum i' blazes . . ." There was a trace of humor in his voice. She wiped her face with her skirt—the beautiful, faded gold-cloth and turned to look at him. He was playing nervously with the banister. "You were in my arms . . ."

She started. _Did_ he remember, then? He moved closer to her, close enough that his breath stirred the curls on her neck. "I said nothing, because I knew . . ." He cut himself off. Because he knew that she was in love with Will? Because he knew she would refuse his advances? Because he knew that if they ever got off the island, anything that happened there would never be spoken of again? _Speak, _she pleaded, _tell me, Jack . . . tell me you remember, tell me that you _want _to remember . . . _He moved closer still.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement—the maid was ascending the staircase. Her gaze lingering just a moment more, Elizabeth pulled away from Jack. "Ma'am, Commodore Norrington is waiting." She gestured nervously to the drawing room.

Elizabeth cleared her throat, standing straight, though she sagged under the weight of her gown. She knew she must compose herself. Anything she said to Norrington could endanger her credibility. She must persuade him not to arrest Jack. She took two heavy steps forward.

"Don' go." It was Jack, in a strangely pleading voice—he had never asked her for anything before.

For a moment, she crumpled. Then she waved the maid on, and said coldly, "Jack, you're the one who asked him to be shown inside—" She turned to see whatever understanding that had been held between them was broken. He was glaring at her with fury. "We're lucky he didn't arrest you in the assembly room," she winced, "with everyone there to see . . ."

"No, he's too much of a _gentleman _to do that." Lazy disdain.

She ignored him and started toward the drawing room. To her surprise, he followed her. "He's requested to see me, not you."

Just as frostily, he replied, "If you're going to see him, I'm comin' too."

Elizabeth's shoulders slumped, but she could no longer find the strength to argue. She thought of days before, when she and Jack had swam their way up the Thames. _Then _she'd been too exhausted to argue with him, and now she was even more weary (if that were possible). She knew it was probably likely she could dissuade Jack from confronting Norrington, but she realized she needed all her composure for the inevitable scene that was about to occur. And maybe in her cruelest, most self-serving recesses, she considered the fact that Norrington might arrest Jack and that such might be a satisfactory end to all these distressing thoughts on loyalty and love. She drew herself up again, and other than a thin frown line on her forehead, she looked every bit the Governor's daughter when she entered the drawing room.

James Norrington had been pacing in a small, contained circle, still resplendent in his black velvet Navy dress uniform. When he saw Elizabeth, he stared—and quite unconsciously, a wave of admiration seemed to travel through him. "Mrs. Turner—" he began, his voice strained. "Are you well? Are you recovered?"

Elizabeth suddenly remembered that all he knew of her was that she had appeared to faint. In some way, she was touched by his concern. "Yes, yes, I'm—"

His interruption and flurried tone were quite uncharacteristic of so deliberate a man. "I was worried, fitfully worried, and—" Jack Sparrow the pirate strode in. "_You_—" Norrington growled.

Elizabeth looked at Jack whose angry eyes were already locked in a serious battle of wills with Norrington's. "Jack—" she cautioned.

"Calling him by his Christian name, speaking to him so familiarly, are we!"

"I see you do not share tha' privilege."

Norrington's eyes were hard and sharp as green glass upon Jack, but became soft and gentlemanly when he looked at Elizabeth. "I confess . . . that I do not . . . understand what is going on." She imagined he had a great deal more to say, but propriety restrained him. Unlike Jack.

"Well, ye see here, dear ol' Commodore, 's as simple as this: Elizabeth happens t' be my wife."

It was one of those rare occasions when Jack did not drop the first syllable of her name, and the crisp sound made an irrefutable impact. If it was possible for Norrington to become paler, he did; his hands also clenched menacingly around his gloves.

Elizabeth eased into the space between the two men. "Commodore—James," she said soothingly. "I asked Jack to pose as my husband in order to receive my inheritance from my uncle Swann. I intend to use it to conduct a search for Will in the Caribbean." She saw Norrington relax slightly, though when she turned to Jack he was the color of rage. "Our marriage is a sham. A profitable lie." She narrowed her eyes at Norrington. "What did you think? To accuse me of bigamy? Can you really imagine--?"

"I can imagine, madam, a great deal," said the Commodore tersely, evidently at a loss. "But I did not imagine I would meet this rogue and King's enemy in your company—" a sympathetic, caressing look at Elizabeth, "—ever again."

"All this loverly, high-toned talk is nice an' all," said Jack, in a deceptively nonchalant voice, "but do you plan t' arrest me or not? Or at least _attempt _t' arrest me?" The sarcasm was heavy as bitter honey.

Norrington gazed at Jack with a velvety sort of rancor. Elizabeth saw him handling his sword-belt and knew that it was not idle hands. "I came here to scrutinize the condition of Mrs. Turner, not to arrest any person she might be harboring under her roof from the justice of the law." He shrugged elegantly. "But I could doubtless make an exception in your case."

Elizabeth was certain the two were going to fly at each other. Fainting was out of the question. Instead she found herself falling forward on both knees—exceedingly awkward in her gown—and gazing up at Norrington with supplication. "Please, James, I ask you for his life."

"Get up, get up, Elizabeth!" Norrington said, looking embarrassed. "Really, you mustn't—"

She ignored him. "He would not have come here if it hadn't been for me." She hazarded a look at Jack, who appeared dumbstruck by her action. "Please."

Norrington gazed at her, open-mouthed, for a long time, finally giving her a curt nod. He helped her to her feet and turned to Jack. But instead of grateful, Jack's face was grim and angry. "I'll thank you not t' do my begging for me!" he snapped at Elizabeth. Without a further word, he turned away and exited quietly.

Norrington's eyes followed Jack until he had left the room, wary and intense but also slightly bewildered. His hand dropped from the dress-sword. Elizabeth shuddered, unsure whether to feel furious with Jack or herself, and finally deciding on gratitude for Norrington. In a way, she felt as though she had prostituted herself—begged her friend and former suitor, to whom she owed much, for Jack, whose only payment was in scorn. "Now," said Norrington, his glance formal but accusatory, "tell me again what this is about."

She sighed. "It's just as I told you, James."

"Please relate it again," he said, with a short smile.

She attempted to keep her patience, noting he listened attentively and his green eyes glinted with curiosity rather than censure. But she repeated what she had said in front of Jack nearly word for word. "So, you see, she said, knitting her hands together, playing with the folds of her gown, "it really is very simple."

Norrington walked a few paces, standing at attention, his high shoulders straight. "What I don't understand, madam, is why you would seek the aid of a pirate—" he turned to her, his glance deeply reproving, his lip curled in disgust "—one whom I had been expressly pursuing for crimes against the common good before I was . . ." he cleared his throat, looked down briefly, ". . . relieved of duty in Port Royal—instead of mine. I would have been happy—"

She shook her head, holding her elbows against her chest. "No, James, I think you would not have been." He started at her answer. "You weren't so keen on looking for my husband yourself—"

He rounded on her fiercely, his pale, clean-shaven cheeks trembling in annoyance. "We searched many times," he insisted. "There was not more that we could have done. Rationally, you must understand that. His Majesty's Navy has neither the resources nor the time . . . And then when the plague struck . . ."

She tilted her brown eyes up under her heavy lashes. "Then could I in good conscience ignore the conditions you had placed on your aid—?"

"There were no conditions!" Norrington drew closer to her, looking down at her closely. She fancied she could smell the lightest hint of bay leaves from his toilette on him; she could see how intricately his cravat was tied, how finely woven was his powdered wig. "There were requests, but never conditions!" He trembled, becoming gentle and pleading. "Only in your own mind."

"That's right," she whispered. "And the law of the land is that you cannot honorably give someone something without expecting _something _in return."

She saw him smile briefly, the equivalent of a fencing "touché." Then he looked at her, stiff and unbending. "And _what _are you giving _him?" _

His tone suggested much more than the question, and she thought with bitter anger that at least pirates, such as Mr. Gibbs, had the courage to form such notions into honest questions. Her answer, however, was all coolness. "Half of my inheritance. And I shall ask my uncle to write him a letter of marque."

Norrington looked faintly surprised but definitely disapproving. He moved from her, paced silently in a circle, and then came back—elegant, gentlemanly, grave—everything that Jack was not. "I could understand," he said at last, "—though not condone—your reasons for encouraging the attentions of young Mr. Turner." She regarded him with curiosity. "He was young, at work in a respectable trade—"

"Don't speak of him as if he were dead!" She knew it was less from unkindness than the practicality of a military man, but this insistence that her husband was dead was too much.

"—intelligent if too impetuous, and devoted to you—though below your station, of course." He smiled curtly. She shook her head. "But this man Sparrow—"

"Why does everyone assume," her voice was shrill and harsh, "that just because we're pretending to be married, there is something untoward between us?" She hadn't meant to allow her voice to tremble, but it did and nullified her statement. James Norrington saw all and gazed at her with a piercing eye.

"Well, I can tell you, Elizabeth, that this man does not consider the marriage a sham." She looked away, not eager to see the hint of a smile on Norrington's usually impassive face. "The bizarre way he just acted in our presence—though, I grant you, _he _is capable of _much_ strange behavior—would seem to prove it."

She cleared her throat and looked at Norrington. "With respect, James," she said slowly, "you know nothing about it."

This blunt language rather shocked him, as his look turned sour and he picked up his hat from where it had rested on the sofa. She felt herself drooping, each breath hurting her corset-incased ribcage the more. At last Norrington held out his hand to her. She placed hers in his, marveling at how soft and warm it was, how clean, how supple. "Elizabeth," he said, his pink tongue darting across lips dry with worry, "when I asked you for your hand—"

She dropped her eyes. "Please, James, don't."

"I cared for you," he insisted, still holding her hand gently. "But I was not certain that I loved you." She felt her heart sinking. How could he ask her again—a third time—and she would have to refuse? Because she did not love him. Because she was still married. "Now I look back and know that I did love you." His green eyes were blazing, revelatory, but most of all kind. She was baffled that there was not a note of bitterness. "But I will never ask you again, if those are your wishes. I have no desire to be a nuisance to one of the women I most esteem." He hoisted her hand to his mouth and gently kissed the inside of her wrist twice, not quite chastely. She shook her head firmly, drawing back her hand. He nodded, picking up his hat. "Then I bid you good night. I am sorry that we had to meet again under such awkward circumstances. I hope that in the future you will take better care of your health. And," he added with a dubious look, "see that Mr. Sparrow keeps himself in greater check unless he wishes to be arrested by some authority greater than myself." He turned toward the door.

Elizabeth bowed her head meekly. "James—thank you, first for your concern about my health. You are too kind and have always been. And thank you for your restraint . . . in all things. It may be difficult for you to believe me in this present state, but if things had not been—"

"Elizabeth, I would beseech you to consider very carefully any action you might take." When she looked up in surprise, he regarded her gravely. "It's clear that this man cares for you. Perhaps he even loves you." She opened her mouth to vehemently disagree. "I will not dictate moral or sentimental judgment, it is not my place. But let me remind you, out of my own long-held fondness for you, that a pirate can break a woman's heart as soon as he would plunder a port." With that, he tipped his hat and exited.

Elizabeth stood for a moment by the door. She hadn't the strength to consider the implications of what Norrington had said. She just wanted to retire to bed and sleep off this day. Feelings of regret and guilt overwhelmed her—she owed much to Norrington, and her rejection of him hurt her as well. What had it been for? It was true that she was still married and still in love with Will, and still she clung to the belief that he was alive. But it was not her devotion to Will that had disturbed Norrington—it was her defense of Jack. How could she justify such dedication? Why had Norrington been so convinced that there were feelings romantic and improper between her and the pirate? She didn't want to think about it.

She reached her hands up to the knots of her hair and slowly began to unpin it. Strands of gold-brown fell in heaps upon her shoulders; she mounted the stairs with wobbly, aching feet. She intended to reach her chamber and undress immediately; her feet were blistered, her thighs bruised, her chest on fire, and her head spinning. On the landing, she found the chamber door open; Jack was inside with a candelabrum lighting the pre-dawn dark. She swept past him as she entered and ducked behind the patterned screen. She stepped out of her high shoes with a sigh, then unlaced her gown and corset as quickly as a single person was able. As she was drawing herself out of the gown, she heard Jack ask, "Why don' you marry the good Commodore? Will Turner's as good as dead."

She felt her skin prickle. She peeked around the screen, saying lividly, "How dare you say that—how _dare _you?" He did not answer and, flushed with rage, she completed her toilette by throwing on the sacque-robe over her petticoat and chemise. She could not savor the joy of being corset-free because she was too angry. She eased out from behind her dressing screen, clutching the sides of the robe in unsteady fingers. She saw at once that Jack was not idly moving around but gathering a multitude of things and placing them in two piles. He was dressed in the suit he had found in Tortuga, though it was fairly dirty. His hair was untied, as wild about his neck as it had been before she cut it.

"What are you doing?" she asked in a half-nervous, half-amused voice. He looked gruffly over at her, then returned to his work of piling clothes and knickknacks. She noticed his pistol and hat were in one pile, while the voluminous perruque wig he had worn to the assembly was in another. "Are you leaving?" she asked.

"Got no reason t' stay," he muttered and reached curtly below the bed for a small leather valise—whether it was another gift from her uncle or he had stolen it, she could not say. He took the pile with his pistol and started loading it in.

For a moment she was left speechless. Had she really driven him away? Was he really going to sacrifice his hard-earned gold just to get away from London? Now, that he had confronted Norrington and come out on top? He could not be as stupid as all that. "I don't understand you," she said. He grunted wordlessly. "I think, in fact, you owe me an apology—and a whole lot more! I asked Norrington for mercy, and you insult us. I didn't have to get on my knees and _beg _for your life--I don't understand how you could be so uncouth, so ungrateful--"

" 'F you don' understand," he said dully, "then you're a lot more stupid than I thought you t' be."

"What about your gold? Your letter of marque?" She was mocking and harsh, hurt by the way he proceeded to pile the stuff into his valise. The fact he had called her unattractive, not to mention the profanity he had spit at her, was grating horribly.

"Takin' too long." He did not look at her.

"You can't expect me to come up to my uncle and demand my inheritance," she snapped, her voice shrill and nervous. "These things take time. You'll get your money—"

He looked up at her finally, half-smiling, half-grimacing, and it was the first time that the appearance of his gold teeth did not bother her. He let the shirt he had been folding fall onto the bed. He edged toward her. "Look, 'Lizabeth—" his voice was weary and sad, "there just ain't nothin' for 't anymore."

She felt a peculiar sense of dread overcoming her. All of her higher senses tried to stave it off, but the sight of Jack standing there with an honest, genuine look, preparing to leave—he couldn't leave her. He _couldn't. _What did it matter that they had quarreled, that he had told her some awful things? She certainly hadn't meant half of the insulting things she had said—perhaps he felt the same. "What do you mean?"

He took a step toward her, then recanted and moved away again. She saw him rubbing the rings on his fingers and realized that she had been twisting her wedding band on her fingers, again and again and again. She felt this nameless, crushing dread rip at her eyes, and tears began to form. "I see," she said softly. "I see what it is I've done to you." She saw his head jerk toward her, his brows clouding over. She laughed grimly. "I cut your hair, I dressed you up like a prig, and I confined you to a city." He continued to stare at her, his eyes black and heavy—the spark of bravado no longer there. Her lips trembled as one tear melted down her cheek and left an iridescent trail, like a snail on a leaf. "I took away your freedom. The only thing that really mattered to you." She thought of Will suddenly, his warm brown eyes so naïve, the quirk of his brow when he smiled, and felt lonelier than ever. "I'm sorry. I really am, Jack. I'll talk to my uncle at once so you can be on your way."

She turned to go down to her uncle's study to wait for him. He would doubtless be home soon; it was nearly two o'clock in the morning. When she had reached the doorway, her head bowed and aching, wishing so fervently just for sleep, Jack said, "You're wrong, 'Lizabeth." She shuffled around slowly. She couldn't imagine what on earth he could possibly have to say to her. Instead of annoyance and anger on his face, she recognized the smallest smile hiding in his moustache. "You didn't _take_ anything from me. There was nothing I did here tha' was not o' my own will." She felt herself lighten a little. This, at least, was a relief. She brushed the remnants of her tear away and looked at him expectantly. "And freedom's not the only thing that matters t' me. Not anymore."

She was going to laugh, as this was such a Haymarket theatrical thing to say, and she was sure he was lying. But then he beat her to it, and laughed suddenly, a confused, self-deprecating laugh. It was almost as if he couldn't what he was going to say. "Ever since I saw you," he said, raising his gesticulating fingers (no longer dirty, but otherwise in the self-same style), "there's been somethin' I've wanted t' do . . ."

For a moment she feared quite seriously he was going to raise his pistol and shoot her, though she realized quickly that had he wanted her dead, he certainly would have just let her drown—that being the first time he saw her. She swallowed and watched him pace. ". . . the first time, you were wet an' not 'xactly breathing, so tha' didn't help matters." She saw him glance significantly at her corset hanging from the top of the dressing screen. ". . . the second time, we were in the middle o' a battle an' you were about t' slap me . . ."

It took her a moment to recall that he meant when the _Black Pearl _and the _Interceptor _had met on the seas. She felt that her curious dread was dissipating and, in its place, a strange effervescent expectation was bubbling. ". . . an' then when the opportune moment presented itself . . . well . . ."

"Your point, please, Jack: I don't understand."

She saw him gaze around him wildly, and finally he flung a sinewy arm toward her, grabbing her by the elbow and pulling her close to him. Suddenly her arms were holding her against him, his forehead gently pressing hers, and his eyes an impenetrable black barrier. She felt she should pull away, but still she didn't move. His lashes dropped their thick veil, and his mouth sought hers.

The kiss was barely deserving of the name, so brief, so purely-intentioned. But by the time his lips had relinquished hers, her heart was thundering. He was so warm, and she could smell the attar of roses on him, the slight spice of alcohol, and she relished the taste of him: the saltiness, the hint of rum. "There," he said, "what don' you understand?"

He dropped away from her almost contemptuously. She licked her lips, shivering—_he must care for me, he must . . . _want _me—what can I do? _"Jack, does—does this mean . . .?"

"It means—" He cleared his throat and took her hand. His palm was rough like the sand spilled on deck in battle. His shirtsleeves were unbuttoned down his chest under his waistcoat and at the cuffs, revealing the tan of his chest, the brand on his arm. "It means 'f I stay any longer, withou' . . ." A low, animal sound came out of his throat, and his eyes caressed her.

". . . taking action, I shan't be fit fer sailing, I shan't be fit . . . fer anything." She loosed her hand from his and fingered the indentation of the brand upon his skin, knowing every second more that she touched him, the more tempted she would be, the more infatuated with him she would become. She realized that everyone had known rightly: Gibbs, AnaMaria, even Norrington. Her desire for Jack had followed her through storm and ease, and it burned more brilliantly than a star—more brilliantly than her love for Will.

"You belong t' Will," he said in a dogged voice, as if reading her thoughts. His eyes were filled with a bitter agony as he reached with his free hand to gently stroke her unkempt hair on her shoulder. "In body, mind, soul—an' in name, Mrs. Turner."

He gently disengaged his hand from hers, and suddenly she felt a violent jealousy. Didn't he know that she was prepared to sacrifice everything—everything—to be with him? Was she to find that the scurrilous Jack Sparrow was really some kind of a milk-blood with no desire whatsoever? A _real _pirate would have had her on that bed hours ago! Or perhaps he didn't really want her after all? She recalled that he had called her unattractive and without charm. A heavy wave of disappointment and guilt toppled her, and she faltered. She thought the unthinkable. "You've loved women before who were married . . . yes?"

He gazed at her, nonplussed. She bit her lip. She couldn't believe she had acknowledged his amorous past, and apparently he couldn't either. "Yes . . ."

"Then it's respect for Will—?"

"An' fer you!" His eyes were pleading, his hands clenching and unclenching with alarming violence. " 'F I didn't respect you," he panted, "would I have held back nearly beyond endurance, as I have?" He shook his head. "You're young, 'Lizabeth—whatever else you may be, you're beautiful, you're an uncommon woman, you're accustomed t' a certain manner of living. Would't be fair t'ye t'offer meself, when I'm almost twice yer age, wi' no respectable future, no prospects—"

"Jack," Elizabeth said firmly, "do you really think I care about things like respectability, prospects? You must be mad to think I'd prefer a life here in London to one aboard ship!" She retrieved his hands, hanging listlessly at his sides, and brought them knowingly to her waist.

To her satisfaction, Jack's eyes tilted back lazily, and his hands caressed her curves with a familiarity that was both exasperating and very stirring. Then he froze. " 'Lizabeth, no," he said. "Ahhh-mmm--As much as I'd like t' be doing this, I know you'll recover your better senses soon enough." He gently but resolutely removed his hands. "A few sober minutes, my dear, and you'll realize s' only a passing fancy for Captain Jack Sparrow . . ."

She drew away from him angrily. "Am I just a passing fancy to you!" He smiled and held out his empty hands helplessly, as if to say, "If you were, would I have done everything I have, for you, for you only?" She knew at this instant the only thing she wanted was to kiss him, hard and long. She looked down and walked across the room. She began to rifle through the things she'd carefully hidden under the bed. She hoped when she turned around Jack would still be there.

"Wha' you be doin' there, love?" he asked, and a very real curiosity was in his normally nonchalant voice.

Ignoring his question, she came toward him, her arms outstretched. In her hands were a dozen small baubles, a sea urchin's spine, beads, and trinkets. Jack stared. "I told you t' throw those overboard," he said quietly, not looking up at her.

"Jack, stop and think for a moment. Why would I keep these things if I didn't . . . care for you . . ." She hesitated, afraid to say more. When Jack remained silent, brooding, she gently placed the handful on the floor, and before he could react, had tilted her chin upwards. He accepted her kiss hesitantly at first, but soon his arms were pulling her close, his lips nibbling at hers hungrily. When she pulled back, half-exhilarated, half-frightened, she was met by dark eyes dilated in pleasure. _She did not want to think about tomorrow . . . _

"Bring me that horizon," she whispered, her eyes winking with laughter. "That's an order, Captain Sparrow. Do I make myself clear?"

Jack laughed softly into her hair. "Inescapably."


	9. Epilogue

Midshipman Gladpoole used the tattered remains of his sleeve to wipe the sweat pouring from his forehead. The hold was cramped and dark, and only by edging to the bamboo screen that connected to the upper decks of the junk could he see anything. The air was foul around him, and someone, squatting and hidden in the shadows, coughed.

He rubbed his close-shaved head, his pale ginger-colored hair prickly to the touch. He winced in pain, rubbing the dried blood from the wound near his ear. _What was that? _ he wondered., How far back could he remember? Well, there had been the fire fight aboard the _Eagle, _these blasted Chinese pirates had raked the ship, reduced it to scubbers and no more, and he'd felt a musketball brush past his ear.

Here he was: midshipman of a ship of the line, on the way to taking the test for lieutenant, and now reduced to crawling on his knees—stockings torn, knees chafed, wig lost—in God knew what ship. And that stench! "I say there," he ventured in a weak voice that nevertheless commanded a slight respect as was due a future lieutenant. "Do any of you speak English? Eng-lish," he repeated, pouting his puckered, chapped lips.

He was met by a rough, ungainly shove from a hand wrapped in bandages. Some language he could not comprehend—something like that heathen Chinese, but a different tongue—issued from his companion's mouth, harsh words that could easily be a curse. With the words came spittle that landed on Gladpoole's upturned nose. He crawled on, gaining more shoves and kicks for his trouble. Next he found himself trotting over a soft, warm piece of flesh—

"Blast it!" he snapped, barely avoiding crushing a shrieking rat under the heel of his boot. He was violently tossed aside by another Chinese prisoner who grabbed the squirming rat by its fleshy tail and commenced slamming it against the hull. The squeaking set Gladpoole's teeth on edge, and he hurried on.

In the bare light, he saw the remains of the clipped moustachio and beard of an officer of the Royal Spanish Navy on the sallow face of a gentleman whose eyes were closed. "English, señor?" he asked. "_Ingles, _eh?" He received no response, and for a moment, coldness stole into his heart. The man was dead. Gladpoole gulped. No—_he _would not die aboard this rat-infested hole!

At last he saw the silhouette of a linen shirt, a brown leather shoe with worn toe, buckle of tarnished brass. "You there," Gladpoole murmured, wiping his brow and upper lip. "Do you speak English?"

The shadow had the voice of a young man. "Yes. I speak English."

"Oh, blessed be the Lord," Gladpoole murmured with a reverence toward Heaven—wherever Heaven was from this stink-hole. He couldn't help effusively grabbing for the hand of his companion, so great was his joy, and found them both bound. He shrunk back, suspicious. "Who are you?"

"My name is William Turner."

Gladpoole peered at the shadow of the man, thought he could make out the strings of brown hair clinging to a youthful face with vestiges of a moustache and beard. "Why are you bound?"

"I tried to escape," said Will Turner simply.

"Ah, yes," Gladpoole murmured, thinking secretly that this boy, whoever he was, might prove a valuable ally. "My name is Peter Gladpoole. I was a midshipman on His Majesty's _Eagle." _

"I was crossing to England, from Port Royal."

"Are you a military man, Mr. Turner?"

There was a hint of humor in his voice. "No, a simple blacksmith, I'm afraid."

A loud commotion of stamping feet and shouts in the cant of Chinese pirates startled Gladpoole. He and Will Turner watched suspiciously as a new prisoner tumbled in their ranks. A shrill but imperious female voice ranted harshly above them.

"That woman again!" Gladpoole snarled, clapping his hands over his ears. "What is a woman doing amongst this lot anyway?"

"I believe she's the captain of this vessel," said Will Turner, edging into the light and revealing him for a hale lad of twenty-two.

"Don't be absurd," snorted Gladpoole; "whoever heard of a woman pirate?"

Will Turner seemed to smile. Another high, female voice was heard. "I think that's her daughter," he said, gazing up at a faint face the color of almonds with two dark eyes lined like ink.

Gladpoole stumbled, and the contents of his pockets spilled to the dirt beside Will Turner. He quickly retrieved his effects. His pudgy arm was seized in a pinching grip: startled, he looked up at Will Turner. "Where did you get this?" The boy's face was black and coarse. He shook Gladpoole hard. "Where did you get this!"

Gladpoole shook him off and stared at the small gold coin in his hand, a strange skull shape imprinted on it. He smiled faintly. "Steady on! Got it from a fellow in Macao." He stared at the other young man. "Now that I come to think of it, he looked rather like you. In fact, a lot like you." Will Turner released Gladpoole with a jerk. "Peculiar name, he had. I believe he was called . . . Bootstrap."

**Author's Note. **

Thank you for reading all the way through this story. Those who have left reviews, I will reply to you personally.

If this epilogue seems to bring no closure whatsoever, be heartened: there was supposed to be an entire sequel to BMTH. I just haven't gotten around to it, as it would be infernally complex and honestly, I'm not sure how much tension I can wring out of the Jack/Elizabeth relationship once they sleep together. Maybe once _Pirates of the Caribbean 2 _comes out next year I'll be able to finish it.

Thanks again and, adieu.

Acknowledgements

I am deeply indebted to the authors whose books helped me with the historical portion of _Bring Me That Horizon. _

David Cordingly (_Under the Black Flag: The Romance and the Reality of Life Among the Pirates_)

Richard B. Schwartz (_Daily Life in Johnson's England_)

Kristin Olsen (_Daily Life in 18th Century England_)

C. Willett & Phillis Cunningham (_Handbook of English Costume in the 18th Century_)

Iris Brooke (_Dress and Undress: The Restoration and the 18th Century)_

Anne Buck (_Dress in 18th Century England_)

Ulrike Klausmann et al (_Women Pirates and the Politics of the Jolly Roger_)

Robert J. Antony (_Like Froth Floating on the Sea: The World of Pirates and Seafarers in Late Imperial South China_)

A big thank you to Jamie for posting _BMTH. _Also, to everyone who wrote to me with words of encouragement: thank you! I could not have written the story without your support. And thanks, of course, to Ted & Terry for creating Jack and Elizabeth, and to Johnny and Keira for playing them so beautifully! J + E♥!


	10. AN

ATTN readers: I have been getting many requests to write the sequel to this. I'm afraid it will be long coming because of quite a few factors. I wouldn't say give up hope entirely, but this is just to let you know that I am paying attention to your reviews. Thanks, and happy reading.


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